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FOUR    MONTHS 
AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 


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HARRY    A.    FRANCK 

FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT 
IN  SPAIN 


*feRieS 


GARDEN     CITY     PUBLISHING     CO.,    INC. 
GARDEN    CITY,    NEW    YORK 


eorruGHT,   191 1,  bt  tbb    centukt   co.       all 

UCBTS  KB8BRVED.      PBINTED  IN  THE  UNITBD  STATBB 
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College 

A  FOREWORD 

YET  another  story  of  travels  in  western  Europe, 
especially  one  having  for  its  basis  the  mere 
random  wanderings  of  a  four-months'  absence  from 
home,  may  seem  almost  to  call  for  apology.  If  so, 
it  is  hereby  duly  tendered.  What  befeU  me  on  this 
vacation  jaunt  is  no  story  of  harrowing  adventure,  nor 
yet  a  record  of  the  acquisition  of  new  facts.  But  as 
I  covered  a  thousand  miles  of  the  Iberian  peninsula 
on  foot,  twice  that  distance  by  third-class  rail,  and 
am  given  to  mingling  with  **  the  masses,"  it  may  be 
that  there  have  filtered  into  the  following  pages  some 
facts  and  impressions  that  will  be  new  to  the  reader. 
Yet  it  is  less  to  record  these  that  I  have  written,  than 
to  answer  a  question  that  has  often  been  put  to  me 
since  my  return : 

"  How  can  a  man  make  such  a  journey  on  $172?  " 

The  Authob.. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I.    A  'TWEENDKCKS  JoURNEY     , 

II.  Footpaths  of  Andalusia     , 

III.  The  Last  Foothold  of  the  Moor 

IV.  The  Banks  of  the  Guadalquivir 
V.  The  Torero  at  Home    . 

VL  Tramping  Northward  . 
VII.  Spanish  Boads  and  RoAOSTKRa 
VIII.  On  the  Road  in  La  Mancha 
IX.  The  Trail  of  the  Priest   .. 
X.  Shadows  of  the  Philips     , 
XI.  Crumbling  Cities     ..     . 
XII.  Wildest  Spain    .      .      .     > 

XIII.  The  Land  of  the  Basque  ... 

XIV.  A  Descent  Into  Aragon  „> 
XV.  Emigrating  Homeward       . 


PAGE 

.       3 

.     28 

.     52 

.     72 

.     89 

,   115 

,   132 

145 

157 

171 

198 

217 

243 

264 

275 


FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 


FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

CHAPTER  I 

A    'TWEENDECKS    jrOUENEY 

NOT  the  least  of  the  virtues  of  the  private  schools 
of  New  York  City  is  the  length  of  their  sum- 
mer vacations.  It  was  an  evening  late  in  May 
that  I  moimted  to  my  lodgings  in  Hartley  Hall, 
rollicksome  with  the  information  that  I  should  soon 
be  free  from  professional  duties  a  full  four  months. 
Where  I  preferred  to  spend  that  term  of  freedom 
was  easily  decided.  Except  for  one  migratory 
**  year  oif ,"  I  had  not  been  so  long  outside  a  class- 
room since  my  fifth  birthday;  and  it  seemed  fully 
as  far  back  that  I  had  begun  to  dream  of  tramping 
through  Spain.  If  the  desire  had  in  earlier  days 
battened  on  mere  curiosity,  it  found  more  rational 
nourishment  now  in  my  hope  of  acquiring  greater 
fluency  in  the  Spanish  tongue,  the  teaching  of  which, 
with  other  European  languages,  was  the  source  of 
my  livelihood. 

There  was  one  potent  obstacle,  however,  to   my 
jubilant  planning.     When  I  had  set  aside  the  small- 

s 


4        FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

ftst  portion  of  my  savings  that  could  tide  me  over 
the  first  month  of  autumn,  there  was  left  a  stark 
one  hundred  and  seventy-two  dollars.  The  briefest 
of  mathematical  calculations  demonstrated  that  such 
a  sum  could  cover  but  scantily  one  himdred  and 
twenty  days.  Yet  the  blithesome  project  would  not 
be  put  to  rout  by  mere  figures.  I  had  been  well 
schooled  at  least  in  the  art  of  spending  sparingly; 
with  a  long  summer  before  me  I  was  not  averse  to 
a  bit  of  adventure,  even  the  adventure  of  falling 
penniless  in  foreign  lands.  A  permanent  stranding 
was  easily  averted  —  I  had  but  to  leave  in  trust  a 
sum  sufficient  for  repatriation,  to  be  forwarded  to 
whatever  comer  of  the  globe  insolvency  might  over- 
haul me.  Which,  being  done,  I  pocketed  in  express 
checks  and  cash  the  remainder  of  my  resources  — ' 
to-wit,  one  hundred  and  thirty-two  dollars  —  tossed 
into  a  battered  suit-case  a  summer's  supply  of  small 
clothes  and  a  thread-bare  costume  for  ship  wear,  and 
set  out  to  discover  what  portion  of  the  Iberian  penin- 
sula might  be  surveyed  with  such  equipment. 

Thus  it  was  that  on  the  morning  of  June  first  I 
boarded  the  "  L  **  as  usual  at  One  Hundred  and 
Sixteenth  street;  but  took  this  time  the  west  side 
express  instead  of  the  local  that  screeches  off  at 
Fifty-third  into  the  heart  of  the  city.  A  serge 
suit  of  an  earlier  vintage  and  double-soled  oxfords 
were  the  chief  articles  of  my  attire,  reduced  already 
to  Spanish  simplicity  except  for  the  fleckless  collar 


A  TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  5 

and  the  cracked  derby  I  had  donned  for  the  flight 
through  exacting  Manhattan.  As  for  the  suitcase 
that  rocked  against  the  platform  gate  as  we  roared 
southward,  it  was  still  far  from  a  pedestrian's  scrip. 
For  with  the  ambitious  resolution  to  rectify  during 
the  long  sea  voyage  before  me  some  of  the  sins  of 
omission,  I  had  stuffed  into  it  at  the  last  moment  a 
dozen  classic  volumes  in  Sixth-avenue  bindings. 

"  Christ  'f er !  "  croaked  the  guard. 

I  descended  to  the  street  and  threaded  my  way 
to  the  ferry.  Across  the  river  Hoboken  was 
thronged  with  luggage-laden  mankind,  swarthy  sons 
and  daughters  of  toil  for  the  most  part ;  an  eddying 
stream  of  which  the  general  trend  was  toward  a 
group  of  steamship  docks.  With  it  I  was  borne  into 
a  vast  two-story  pier,  strewn  below  with  everything 
that  ships  transport  across  the  seas  and  resounding 
above  with  the  voice  of  an  excited  multitude.  Near 
the  center  of  the  upper  wharf  stood  an  isolated 
booth  bearing  a  transient  sign-board : 


PRINZESSIN 


SCHNELLDAMPFEK. 
>» 


Within,  sat  a  coatless,  broad-gauge  Teuton,  puffing 
At  a  stogie. 

**  Third-class  to  Gibraltar,"  I  requested,  stooping 
to  peer  through  the  wicket. 

The  German  reached  mechanically  for  a  pen  and 
began  to  fill  in  a  leaf  of  what  looked  like  a  large 


6        FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

check-book.     Then  he  paused  and  squinted  out  upon 
me: 

**  Ah  —  er  —  you  mean  steerage?  '* 
**  Steerage,  mein  Herr ;  to  Gibraltar." 
He  signed  the  blue  check  and  pushed  it  toward 
me,  still  holding  it  firmly  by  one  corner. 

**  Thirty  dollars  and  fifty  cents,"  he  rumbled. 
I  paid  it  and,  ticket  in  hand,  wormed  my  way 
to  the  nearer  of  two  gangways.  Here  I  was  re- 
pulsed; but  at  the  second,  an  officer  of  immaculate 
exterior  but  for  two  very  bleary  eyes,  tore  off  a 
comer  of  the  blue  check  and  jerked  a  thumb  over 
his  shoulder  toward  the  steamer  behind  him.  As  I 
set  foot  on  her  deck  a  seaman  sprang  up  suddenly 
from  the  scuppers  and  hurled  at  my  chest  a  tightly 
rolled  blanket.  I  caught  it  without  a  fumble,  having 
once  dabbled  in  football,  and,  spreading  it  out  on  a 
hatch,  disclosed  to  view  a  deep  tin  plate,  a  huge 
cup,  a  knife,  fork  and  spoon  of  leaden  hue,  and  a 
red  card  announcing  itself  as  "  Buono  i)er  una 
razione." 

A  hasty  inspection  of  the  Prinzessin  con- 
firmed a  suspicion  that  she  would  not  offer  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  steamers  plying  the  northern  route. 
She  was  a  princess  indeed,  a  sailor's  princess,  such 
as  he  may  find  who  has  the  stomach  to  search  in  the 
dives  along  West  street  or  down  on  the  lower 
Bowery,  At  her  launching  she  had,  perhaps,  justi- 
fied her  christening;   but  long  years   haye  passed 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  7 

since  she  was  degraded  to  the  unfastidious  southern 
service. 

The  steerage  section,  congested  now  with  dishev- 
eled Latins  and  cumbrous  bundles,  comprised  the 
forward  main  deck,  bounded  on  the  bow  by  the  fore- 
castlehead  and  aft  by  an  iron  wall  that  rose  a  sheer 
eight  feet  to  the  first-class  promenade,  above  which 
opened  the  hurricane  deck  and  higher  still  the  wheel- 
house  and  bridge.  This  space  was  further  limited 
by  two  large  hatchways,  covered  with  tarpaulins,  of 
which  a  comer  of  each  was  thrown  back  to  disclose 
two  dark  holes  like  the  mouths  of  a  mine.  By  these 
one  entered  the  third-class  quarters,  of  which  the 
forward  was  assigned  to  "  single  men "  and  the 
other  to  any  species  of  the  human  race  that  does  not 
fall  into  that  category.  I  descended  the  first  by  a 
perpendicular  ladder  to  a  dungeon  where  all  but 
utter  darkness  reigned.  As  my  eyes  accustomed 
themselves  to  this  condition,  there  grew  up  about  me 
row  after  row  of  double-decked  bunks,  heaped  with 
indistinct  shapes.  I  approached  the  nearest  and 
was  confronted  by  two  wolfish  eyes,  then  another 
pair  and  another  flashed  up  about  me  on  every  side. 
My  foresighted  fellow-passengers,  having  preempted 
sleeping-space,  were  prepared  to  hold  their  claims  by 
force  of  arms  —  and  baggage. 

Every  berth  seemed  to  be  taken.  I  meandered  in 
and  out  among  them  until  in  a  far  comer  I  found 
one  empty;  but  as  I  laid  a  hand  upon  its  edge,  a 


8        FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

cadaverous  youth  sprang  at  me  with  a  plamtive 
vhine,  "  E  mio !  h  mio !  "  I  returned  to  the  central 
space.  A  sweater-clad  sailor  whom  I  had  not  made 
out  before  was  standing  at  the  edge  of  an  opening 
in  the  deck  similar  to  that  above. 

"  Qui  non  ch'  k  piu,"  he  said;  "  Gid! '» 
I  descended  accordingly  to  a  second  bridewell  be- 
low the  water-line  and  lighted  only  by  a  feeble  elec- 
tric bulb  in  the  ceiling.  Here  half  the  bunks  were 
unoccupied.  I  chose  one  athwartships  against  the 
forward  bulkhead  —  a  wooden  bin  containing  a  bur- 
lap sack  of  straw  —  tossed  into  it  blanket  and  bag- 
gage, and  climbed  again  to  daylight  and  fresh  air. 

At  eleven  the  sepulchral  bass  of  the  steamer 
sounded,  the  vast  pier,  banked  with  straining  faces 
and  fluttering  handkerchiefs,  began  slowly  to  recede, 
sweeping  with  it  the  adjoining  city,  until  all 
Hoboken  had  joined  in  the  flight  to  the  neighboring 
hills.  We  were  off.  I  pitched  overboard  the 
cracked  derby  and  crowded  with  a  half-thousand 
others  to  the  rail,  eager  for  the  long-anticipated 
pleasure  of  watching  the  inimitable  panorama  of 
New  York  grow  smaller  and  smaller  and  melt  away 
on  the  horizon.  But  we  were  barely  abreast  the 
Battery  when  three  officers,  alleging  the  impossi- 
bility of  checking  their  human  cargo  on  the  open 
deck,  ordered  the  entire  steerage  commimity  below. 
When,  long  after,  it  came  my  turn  to  be  released, 
my  native  land  was  utterly  effaced,  and  the  deck  was 


A  »TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  9 

spattering  with  a  chilling  rain  before  which  we  re- 
treated and  frittered  away  the  remnant  of  the  day 
with  amical  advances  and  bachelor  banter. 

In  the  morning  the  scene  was  transformed.  Al- 
most without  exception  my  fellow-voyagers  had 
changed  from  the  somber  garb  of  America  to  the 
picturesque  comfort  of  their  first  landing  in  the 
Western  world.  The  steerage  deck,  flooded  with 
sunshine,  resembled  the  piazza  of  some  Calabrian 
city  on  a  day  of  festival.  Women  in  many-hued 
vesture  and  brilliant  fazzoletti  sat  in  groups  on  the 
hatches,  suckling  their  babes  or  mirthful  over  their 
knitting.  Along  the  rail  lounged  men  in  bag-like 
trousers  and  tight-fitting  jackets  of  velveteen,  with 
broad  scarlet  sashes.  Jaunty,  deep-chested  youths 
strolled  fore  and  aft  angling  for  glances  from  win- 
some eyes.  Unromantic  elders  squatted  in  circles 
about  the  deck,  screaming  over  games  of  mora;  in 
and  out  among  them  all  raced  sportive  bambird. 
High  up  on  a  winch  sat  a  slender  fellow  Turkish 
fashion,  thumbing  a  zither. 

Though  there  was  not  one  beside  myself  to  whom 
that  tongue  was  native,  English  was  still  the  domi- 
nating language.  Except  for  a  handful  of  Greeks, 
the  entire  'tweendecks  company  hailed  from  southern 
Italy  or  her  islands.  But  force  of  habit  or  lin- 
guistic pride  still  gave  full  sway  to  the  slang-strewn 
speech  of  east  New  York  or  the  labor 'camp.  There 
were  not  a  few  who  might  have  expressed  themselves 


10      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

far  more  clearly  in  some  other  medium,  yet  when  I 
addressed  them  in  Italian  silence  was  frequently  the 
response.  The  new  world  was  still  too  close  astern 
to  give  way  to  the  spell  of  the  old. 

But  it  was  in  their  mother  tongue  that  I  ex- 
changed the  first  confidences  with  three  young  men 
with  whom  I  pajssed  many  an  hour  during  the  jour- 
ney. The  mightiest  was  Antonio  Massarone,  a 
vociferous  giant  of  twenty,  whose  scorn  was  un- 
boimded  for  those  of  his  race  who  had  pursued  for- 
tune no  further  than  the  over-peopled  cities  of  our 
eastern  coast.  Emigration  had  carried  him  to  the 
mines  of  Nevada,  and  it  was  seldom  that  he  refrained 
from  patting  his  garnished  waistband  when  tales  of 
experience  were  exchanging.  But  the  time  had  come 
when  he  must  give  up  his  princely  wage  of  three 
dollars  a  day  and  return  for  years  of  drudgery  and 
drill  at  as  many  cents,  or  forever  forfeit  the  right  to 
dwell  in  his  native  land.  When  his  term  was  ended 
he  would  again  turn  westward;  before  that  glad  day 
comes  what  a  stalwart  task  confronts  certain  officers 
of  the  Italian  army ! 

Nicolo,  too,  expected  to  return.  In  fact,  of  all 
the  steerage  community  a  very  few  had  resolved  to 
remain  at  home,  and  for  each  of  these  there  were  a 
score  who  had  emigrated  a  half-dozen  times  in  the 
face  of  similar  resolutions.  Nicolo  was  a  bootblack, 
proud  of  his  calling  and  envious  of  no  other.  Al- 
ready there  hovered  in  his  day  dreams  a  three-chair 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  11 

**  parlor  "  in  which  his  station  should  be  nearest  the 
door  and  bordering  on  the  cash-register.  Conscrip- 
tion called  him  also,  but  he  approached  the  day  of 
recruiting  light  of  heart,  knowing  a  man  of  four 
feet  nine  would  be  quickly  rejected. 

As  for  Pietro  Scerbo,  the  last  of  our  quartet,  his 
home-coming  was  voluntary,  for  the  family  obligation 
to  the  army  had  already  been  fulfilled  by  two  older 
brothers.  Pietro  had  spent  his  eighteen  months 
kneading  spaghetti  dough  in  the  Bronx  at  seven  dol- 
lars a  week;  and  he  physically  quaked  at  the  sar- 
casm of  'Tonio  on  the  subject  of  wages.  Still  he 
was  by  no  means  returning  empty-handed.  **  To  be 
sure,  I  am  not  rich  with  gold,  like  'Tonio,"  he  con- 
fessed one  day,  when  the  miner  was  out  of  earshot, 
**  but  I  have  spent  only  what  I  must  —  two  dollars 
in  the  boarding-house,  sometimes  some  clothes,  and 
in  the  winter  each  week  six  lire  to  hear  Caruso." 

Thirty  dollars  a  month  and  the  peerless-voiced  a 
necessity  of  life!  I,  too,  had  been  a  frequent 
"  standee "  at  the  Metropolitan,  yet  had  as  often 
charged  myself  with  being  an  extravagant  young 
rascal. 

The  steerage  rations  on  the  Prinzessin  were  in  no 
Way  out  of  keeping  with  her  general  unattractiveness. 
Those  who  kept  to  their  bunks  until  expelled  by  the 
seaman  whose  duties  included  the  daily  fumigation 
of  the  dungeons,  were  in  no  way  the  losers  for  being 
deprived  of  the  infantile  roll  and  the  strange  imita- 


12      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

tion  of  coffee  that  made  up  the  European  breakfast. 
Sea  breezes  bring  appetite,  however,  especially  on  a 
faintly  rippling  ocean,  and  it  was  not  strange  that, 
though  the  dinner-hour  came  early,  even  racial 
lethargy  fled  at  its  announcement.  Long  before 
noon  a  single  jangle  of  the  steward's  bell  cut  short 
all  morning  pastimes  and  instantly  choked  the  pas- 
sages to  the  lower  regions  with  a  clamorous,  jocose 
struggle  of  humanity  as  those  on  deck  dived  below 
for  their  meal-hour  implements  and  collided  with  the 
foresighted,  fighting  their  way  up  the  ladders. 
Once  disentangled,  we  filed  by  the  mouth  of  the 
culinary  cavern  under  the  forecastlehead,  to  re- 
ceive each  a  ladleful  of  the  particular  piece  de  re- 
sistance of  the  day,  a  half-grown  loaf  of  bread,  and 
a  brimming  cupful  of  red  wine.  Thus  laden,  each 
squirmed  his  way  through  the  multitude  and  made 
table  of  whatever  space  offered, —  on  the  edge  of  a 
hatch,  the  drum  of  a  winch,  or  on  the  deck  itself. 
Unvaryingly  day  by  day  boiled  beef  alternated  with 
pork  and  beans.  Then  there  was  macaroni,  not  al- 
ternately, nor  yet  moderately,  but  ubiquitously, 
fourteen  days  a  week;  for  supper  was  in  no  way 
different  from  dinner  even  in  the  unearthly  hour  of  its 
serving.  It  was  tolerably  coarse  macaroni,  but 
otherwise  no  worse  than  omnipresent  macaroni  must 
be  when  boiled  by  the  barrel  under  the  watchful  eye 
of  a  rotund,  torpescent,  bath-fearing,  tobacco-loving, 
Neapolitan    ship's    cook.     For    the    wine    we    weri 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  13 

supremely  grateful;  not  that  It  was  particularly 
good  wine,  but  such  as  it  was  not  even  the  pirates  in 
the  galley  could  make  it  worse. 

The  ensembled  climax  of  this  daily  extravaganza, 
however,  had  for  its  setting  the  steerage  "  wash- 
room," an  iron  cell  furnished  with  two  asthmatic 
salt-water  faucets.  To  it  dashed  first  the  long 
experienced  in  the  quick-lunch  world,  and  on  their 
heels  the  competing  multitude.  The  'tweendecks 
strongholds  housed  six  hundred,  the  "  wash-room  '* 
six,  whence  it  goes  without  saying  that  the  minority 
was  always  in  power  and  the  majority  howling  for 
admittance  and  a  division  of  the  spoils.  Yet  dis- 
sension, as  is  wont,  was  rampant  even  among  the 
sovereign.  From  within  sounded  the  splashing  of 
water,  the  tittering  of  jostled  damsels,  or  the  shout- 
ing for  passage  of  one  who  had  resigned  his  post 
and  must  run  the  gauntlet  to  freedom  through  a 
vociferous  raillery.  In  due  time  complete  rotation 
in  office  was  accomplished,  but  it  was  ever  a  late 
hour  when  the  last  gourmand  emerged  from  the 
alleyway  and  carried  his  dripping  utensils  below. 

The  Prinzessin  plowed  steadily  eastward.  Gradu- 
ally, as  the  scent  of  the  old  world  came  stronger  to 
our  nostrils,  the  tongue  of  the  West  fell  into  disuse. 
Had  I  been  innocent  of  Italian  I  must  soon  have  lost 
all  share  in  the  general  activities.  As  it  was,  I  had 
the  entree  to  each  group ;  even  the  solemn  socialists, 
seated  together  behind  the  winch  planning  the  d«- 


14      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

tails  of  the  portending  reversal  of  society,  did  not 
lower  their  voices  as  I  passed. 

How  little  akin  are  anticipation  and  realization! 
Ever  before  on  the  high  seas  it  had  been  my  part 
to  labor  unceasingly  among  cattle  pens  or  to  bear 
the  moil  of  watch  and  watch;  and  the  imlimited 
leisure  of  the  ticketed  had  seemed  always  fit  object 
for  envy.  Yet  here  was  I  myself  at  last  crossing 
the  Atlantic  as  a  passenger,  and  weary  already  of 
this  forced  inactivity  before  the  voyage  was  well  be- 
gun. The  first  full  day,  to  be  sure,  had  passed  de- 
lightfully, dozing  care-free  in  the  sun  or  striding 
through  the  top-most  volume  in  my  luggage.  But 
before  the  second  was  ended  reading  became  a  bore; 
idling  more  fatiguing  than  the  wielding  of  a  coal- 
shovel.  On  the  third,  I  sauntered  down  into  the 
forecastle  more  than  half  inclined  to  suggest  to  one 
of  its  inmates  a  reversal  of  roles;  but  the  watch 
below  greeted  me  with  that  chill  disdain  accorded 
mere  passengers,  never  once  lapsing  into  the  mascu- 
line banter  that  would  have  marked  my  acceptance 
as  an  equal.  As  a  last  resort  I  set  off  on  long 
pedestrian  tours  of  the  deck,  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  lounging  Latins,  though  now  and  then  some 
youth  inoculated  with  the  restlessness  of  the  West, 
notably  'Tonio,  fell  in  with  me  for  a  milfe  or  two. 

It  was  the  miner,  too,  who  first  accepted  my  chal- 
lenge to  a  bout  of  hand-wrestling  and  quickly 
brought  me  undeserved  fame  by  sprawling  prone  on 


A  TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  13 

his  back,  when,  had  he  employed  a  tithe  of  science, 
he  might  have  tossed  me  into  the  scuppers.  From 
the  moment  of  its  introduction  this  exotic  pastime 
won  great  popularity.  Preliminary  jousts  filled  the 
morning  hours;  toward  evening  the  hatches  were 
transformed  into  grandstands  from  which  the  as- 
sembled third-class  populace  cheered  on  the  panting 
contestants  and  greeted  each  downfall  with  a  can- 
nonade of  laughter,  in  which  even  the  vanquished 
joined. 

More  constant  and  universal  than  all  else,  how- 
ever, was  the  demand  for  music.  The  most  diflBdent 
possessor  of  a  mouth-organ  or  a  jew's-harp  knew 
no  peace  during  his  waking  hours.  Great  was  the 
joy  when,  as  dusk  was  falling  on  the  second  day  out, 
a  Calabrian  who  had  won  fortune  and  corpulence 
as  a  grocer  in  Harlem,  clambered  on  deck,  straining 
affectionately  to  his  bosom  a  black  box  with  mega- 
phone attachment. 

"  E  un  f  onograf o,"  he  announced  proudly ;  **  a 
present  I  take  to  the  old  madre  at  home."  He 
warded  off  with  his  elbows  the  exultant  uprising  and 
deposited  the  instrument  tenderly  on  a  handkerchief 
spread  by  his  wife  on  a  comer  of  the  hatch.  "  For 
a  hundred  dollars,  signori ! "  he  cried ;  "  Madre  di 
Dio!  How  she  will  wonder  if  there  is  a  little  man 
in  the  box!  For  on  the  first  day,  signori,  I  do  not 
tell  her  how  the  music  is  put  in  the  fonografo,  ha! 
ha !  ha !  not  for  a  whole  day ! " —  and  the  joke  came 


1«      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

perilously  near  to  choking  him  into  apoplexy  long 
before  its  perpetration. 

A  turn  of  the  key  and  the  apparatus  struck  up 
**  La  donna  h  m6bile,"  the  strikingly  clear  tones 
floating  away  on  the  evening  air  to  blend  with  the 
wash  of  the  sea  on  our  bow,  A  hush  fell  over  the 
forward  deck;  into  the  circle  of  faces  illumed  by  the 
swinging  ship's  lantern  crept  the  mirage  of  dreams ; 
a  sigh  sounded  in  the  black  night  of  the  outskirts. 

"  E  Bonci,  amici,"  whispered  the  Calabrian  as  the 
last  note  died  away. 

The  announcement  was  superfluous;  no  one  else 
could  have  sung  the  sprightly  little  lyric  with  such 
perfection. 

Bits  of  other  operas  followed,  plantation  melodies, 
and  the  monologues  of  witty  Irishmen;  but  always 
the  catholic  instrument  came  back  to  "  La  donna  h 
mobile,"  and  one  could  lean  back  on  one's  elbows  and 
fancy  the  dapper  little  tenor  standing  in  person  on 
the  comer  of  the  hatch,  pouring  out  his  voice  to  his 
own  appreciative  people. 

Thereafter  as  regularly  as  the  twilight  appeared 
the  Calabrian  with  his  "  fon6grafo."  The  forward 
deck  took  to  sleeping  by  day  that  the  evening 
musicale  might  be  prolonged  into  the  small  hours. 
Whatever  its  imperfections,  the  little  black  box  did 
much  to  charm  away  the  monotony  of  the  voyage, 
in  its  early  stages. 

But  good  fortune  is  rarely  perennial.     One  night 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  17 

in  mid-Atlantic  a  first-class  passenger  of  the  type 
that  adds,  by  contrast,  to  the  attractiveness  of  the 
steerage,  his  arms  about  the  waists  of  two  damsels 
old  enough  to  have  known  better,  paused  to  hang 
over  the  rail.  Bonci  was  singing.  The  promenader 
surveyed  the  oblivious  multitude  below  in  silence  until 
the  aria  ended,  then  turned  on  his  heel  with  a  snort 
of  contempt.  The  maidens  giggled,  the  affectionate 
trio  strolled  aft,  and  a  moment  later  the  cabin 
piano  was  jangling  a  Broadway  favorite.  When  I 
turned  my  head  the  Calabrian  was  closing  his  in- 
strument. 

**  No,  amici,  no  more,"  he  said  as  protest  rose ; 
*'  We  must  not  annoy  the  rich  signori  up  there." 

Nor  could  he  be  moved  to  open  the  apparatus 
again  as  long  as  the  voyage  lasted. 

Amid  the  general  merriment  of  home-coming  was 
here  and  there  a  note  of  sadness  in  the  caverns  of 
the  Prinzessin.  On  a  hatch  huddled  day  by  day,  when 
the  sun  was  high,  a  family  of  three,  doomed  to  early 
extinction  by  the  white-faced  scourge  of  the  north. 
Below,  it  was  whispered,  lay  an  actress  once  famous 
in  the  Italian  quarter,  matched  in  a  race  with  death 
to  her  native  village.  A  toil-worn  Athenian,  on 
life's  down  grade,  who  had  been  robbed  on  the  very 
eve  of  sailing  of  seven  years'  earnings  of  pick  and 
shovel,  tramped  the  deck  from  dawn  to  midnight 
with  sunken  head,  refusing  either  food  or  drink. 
Now  and  again  he  stepped  to  the  rail  to  shake  his 


18       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

knotted  fist  at  the  western  horizon,  stretched  his  arms 
on  high,  and  took  up  again  his  endless  march. 

Then  there  were  the  deported  —  seven  men  whose 
berths  were  not  far  from  my  own.  One  had  shown 
symptoms  of  trachoma;  another  bore  the  mark  of  a 
bullet  through  one  hand;  a  third  was  a  very  Her- 
cules, whom  the  port  doctors  had  pronounced  flaw- 
less, but  who  had  landed  with  four  dollars  less  than 
the  twenty-five  required.  With  this  single  excep- 
tion, however,  one  could  not  but  praise  the  judgment 
of  Ellis  Island.  The  remaining  four  were  dwarfish 
Neapolitans,  little  more  than  wharf  rats;  and  the 
best  of  Naples  bring  little  that  is  desirable.  Yet 
one  could  not  but  pity  the  unpleasing  little  wretches, 
who  had  risen  so  far  above  their  environment  as  to 
save  money  in  a  place  where  money  is  bought  dearly, 
and  whose  only  reward  for  years  of  repression  of 
every  appetite  had  been  a  month  of  misery  and 
frustration, 

**  Porca  di  Madonna ! "  cursed  the  nearest,  point- 
ing to  three  small  blue  scars  on  his  neck ;  "  For  noth- 
ing  but  these  your  infernal  doctors  have  made  me  a 
beggar ! " 

"  On  the  sea,  when  it  was  too  late,"  whined  his 
companion,  *'  they  told  me  we  with  red  eyes  should 
not  go  to  New  York,  but  to  a  city  named  Canada. 
Madre  df  Dio !  Why  did  I  not  take  my  ticket  to  this 
Canada?  " 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  19 

**  You  will  next  time?  "  I  hinted. 

"  Next  time ! "  he  shrieked,  dropping  from  his 
bunk  as  noiselessly  as  a  cat.  "  Is  there  a  next  time 
■with  a  book  like  that?  "  He  shook  in  my  face  the 
libretto  containing  a  record  of  his  activities  since 
birth,  lacking  which  no  Italian  of  the  proletariat 
may  live  in  peace  in  his  own  land  nor  embark  for 
another.  Across  every  page  was  stamped  indelibly 
the  word  "  deported." 

'*  They  ruined  it,  curse  them !  It 's  something  in 
your  maledetta  American  language  that  tells  the 
police  not  to  let  me  go  and  the  agenzia  not  to  sell 
me  a  ticket.  My  book  is  destroyed!  Sono  scomim- 
icato!  And  where  shall  I  get  the  money  for  this 
next  time,  diceme?  To  come  to  America  I  have 
worked  nine,  ten,  sangue  della  Vergine!  how  do  I 
know  how  many  years!  Why  did  I  not  take  the 
ticket  to  this  Canada?  " 

On  the  morning  of  June  seventh  we  raised  the 
Azores;  at  first  the  dimmest  blot  on  the  horizon,  a 
point  or  two  off  the  starboard  bow,  as  if  the  edge 
of  heaven  had  been  salt-splashed  by  a  turbulent  wave. 
Excited  dispute  arose  in  the  throng  that  quickly 
mustered  at  the  rail.  All  but  the  nautical-eyed 
saw  only  a  cloud,  which  in  a  twinkling  the  hysterical 
had  pronounced  the  forerunner  of  a  howling  tempest 
that  was  soon  to  bring  to  the  Prinzessin  the  dreaded 
nuH  di  mare,  perhaps  even  ununctioned  destruction. 


90      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

One  quaking  father  drove  his  family  below  and  bar- 
ricaded his  comer  against  the  tornado-lashed  night 
to  come. 

An  hour  brought  reassurance,  however,  and  with 
it  jubilation  as  the  outpost  of  the  eastern  world  took 
on  corporate  form.  Before  sunset  we  were  abreast 
the  island.  An  oblong  hillside  sloped  upward  to  a 
cloud-cowled  peak.  Villages  rambled  away  up  tor- 
tuous valleys;  here  and  there  the  green  was  dotted 
with  chalk-white  houses  and  whiter  churches. 
Higher  still  the  island  was  mottled  with  duodecimo 
fields  of  grain,  each  maturing  in  its  own  season; 
while  far  and  near  brilliant  red  windmills,  less  stolid 
and  thick-set  than  those  of  Holland,  toiled  in  the 
breeze,  not  hurriedly  but  with  a  deliberate  vivacity 
befitting  the  Latin  south.  Most  striking  of  all  was 
a  scent  of  profoundest  peace  that  came  even  to  the 
passing  ship,  and  a  suggestion  of  eternal  summer, 
not  of  burning  days  and  sultry  nights,  but  of  early 
June  in  some  fairy  realm  utterly  undisturbed  by  the 
clamorous  rumble  of  the  outer  world. 

Two  smaller  islands  appeared  before  the  day  was 
done,  one  to  port  so  near  that  we  could  count  the 
cottage  windows  and  all  but  make  out  the  features 
of  skirt-blown  peasant  women  standing  firm-footed 
in  deep  green  meadows  against  a  background  of 
dimming  hills.  As  the  night  descended,  the  houses 
faded  to  twinkling  lights,  now  in  clusters,  now  a 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  21 

stone's-throw  one  from  another,  but  not  once  failing 
as  long  as  we  remained  on  deck. 

For  two  days  following  the.  horizon  was  unbroken. 
Then  through  the  morning  mists  of  June  tenth  rose 
Cabo  San  Vicente,  the  scowling  granite  corner-stone 
of  Europe,  every  line  of  its  time-scarred  features  a 
(defiance  to  the  sea  and  a  menace  to  the  passerby. 
Beyond  stretched  a  wrinkled,  verdureless  plateau, 
to  all  appearances  impeopled,  and  falling  into  the 
Atlantic  in  grim,  oxide-stained  cliifs  that  here  ad- 
vanced within  hailing  distance,  there  retreated  to 
the  hazy  horizon.  All  through  the  day  the  world's 
commerce  filed  past, —  water-logged  tramps  crawl- 
ing along  the  face  of  the  land,  whale-like  oil  tanks 
showing  only  a  dorsal  fin  of  funnel  and  deck-house. 
East  Indiamen  straining  Biscayward,  and  all  the 
smaller  fry  of  fishermen  and  coasters.  A  rumor, 
rising  no  one  knew  where,  promised  that  early  morn- 
ing should  find  us  entering  the  Mediterranean.  I 
subsidized  the  services  of  a  fellow-voyager  dexterous 
with  shears  and  razor  and,  reduced  to  a  tuft  of  fore- 
lock, descended  once  more  to  the  lower  dungeon. 

Long  before  daylight  I  was  awakened  by  the 
commissario,  or  steerage  steward,  tugging  at  a  leg 
of  my  trousers  and  screeching  in  his  boyish  falsetto, 
**  Gibilterra !  Make  ready!  Gibilterra!"  It  was 
no  part  of  the  commissario's  duties  to  call  third- 
class  passengers.     But  ever  since  the  day  he  had 


22      FOUR  MONTHS  APOOT  IN  SPAIN 

examined  my  ticket,  the  little  whisp  of  a  man  who 
never  ceased  to  regard  me  with  suspicion,  as  if  he 
doubted  the  sanity  of  a  traveler  who  was  bound  for 
a  land  that  was  neither  Italy  nor  America.  Of  late 
he  seemed  convinced  that  my  professed  plan  was 
merely  a  ruse  to  reach  Naples  without  paying  full 
fare,  and  he  eyed  me  askance  now  as  I  clambered 
from  my  bunk,  in  his  pigwidgeon  face  a  stem  de- 
termination that  my  knavery  should  not  succeed. 

Supplied  with  a  bucket  by  a  sailor,  I  climbed  on 
deck  and  approached  the  galley.  The  cook  was 
snoring  in  a  comer  of  his  domain;  his  understudy 
was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  I  tip-toed  to  the  hot-water 
faucet  and  was  soon  below  again  stripping  off  my 
**  ship's  clothes,"  which  the  obliging  seaman,  having 
bespoken  this  reward,  caught  up  one  by  one  as  they 
fell.  The  splashing  of  water  aroused  the  encircling 
sleepers.  Gradually  they  slid  to  the  deck  and 
gathered  around  me,  inquiring  the  details  of  my  ec- 
centric plan.  By  the  time  I  was  dressed  in  the  best 
my  suitcase  offered,  every  mortal  in  the  "  single " 
quarters  had  come  at  least  once  to  bid  me  a  dubious 
farewell. 

The  commlssario  returned  and  led  the  way  in 
silence  along  the  deserted  promenade  to  the  deck 
abaft  the  cabins.  The  Prinzessin  lay  at  anchor.  A 
half-mile  away,  across  a  placid  lagoon,  towered  the 
haggard  Rock  of  Gibraltar,  a  stone-faced  city 
strewn  along  its  base.     About  the  harbor,  glinting 


A  TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  «S 

in  the  slanting  sunlight,  prowled  rowboats,  sloops, 
and  yawls,  and  sharp-nosed  launches.  One  of  the 
latter  soon  swung  in  against  the  starboard  ladder 
and  there  stepped  on  deck  two  men  in  white  uni- 
forms, who  seated  themselves  without  a  word  at  a 
table  which  the  commissario  produced  by  some  magic 
of  his  own,  and  fell  to  spreading  out  impressive  docu- 
ments. A  glance  sufficed  to  recognize  them  English- 
men. At  length  the  older  raised  his  head  with  an 
interrogatory  jerk,  and  the  commissario,  with  the 
air  of  a  man  taken  red-handed  in  some  rascality, 
minced  forward  and  laid  on  the  table  a  great  legal 
blank  with  one  line  scrawled  across  it. 

"  T  'ird  classy  maneefesto,  signori,"  he  apolo- 
gized. 

"  Eh !  "  cried  the  Englishman.  "  A  steerage  pas- 
senger for  Gibraltar?  " 

The  steward  jerked  his  head  backward  toward  me. 

"  Humph ! "  said  the  spokesman,  inspecting  me 
from  crown  to  toe.     **  Where  do  you  hail  from  ?  " 

Before  I  could  reply  there  swarmed  down  the  com- 
panionway  a  host  of  cabin  passengers,  in  port-of- 
call  array,  whom  the  Englishman  greeted  with  bared 
head  and  his  broadest  welcome-to-our-city  smile; 
then  bowed  to  the  launch  ladder.  As  he  resumed  his 
chair  I  laid  my  passport  before  him. 

**  For  what  purpose  do  you  desire  to  land  in 
Gibraltar?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  am  bound  for  Spain  — '*  I  began. 


24      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

"  Spain !  "  shouted  the  Briton,  with  such  emphasis 
as  if  that  land  lay  at  the  far  ends  of  the  earth. 
"  Indeed !  Where  are  you  going  from  Gibraltar, 
and  how  soon?  " 

*'  Until  I  get  ashore  I  can  hardly  say ;  in  a  day  or 
so,  at  least;  to  Granada,  perhaps,  or  Malaga." 

"  Out  of  respect  for  the  American  passport,"  re- 
plied the  Englishman  grandiloquently,  "  I  am 
going  to  let  you  land.  But  see  you  stick  to  this 
story." 

I  descended  to  the  launch  and  ten  minutes  later 
landed  with  my  haughty  fellow-tourists  at  a  bawling, 
tout-lined  wharf.  An  officer  peeped  into  my  hand- 
bag, and  I  sauntered  on  through  a  fortress  gate 
imder  which  a  sun-scorched  Tommy  Atkins  marched 
unremittingly  to  and  fro.  Beyond,  opened  a  nar- 
row street,  paralleling  the  harbor  front  and  peopled 
even  at  this  early  hour  with  a  mingling  of  races  that 
gave  to  the  scene  the  aspect  of  a  temperate  India,  or 
a  scoured  and  rebuilt  Egypt.  Sturdy  British 
troopers  in  snug  khaki  and  roof-like  tropical  hel- 
mets strode  past;  bare-legged  Moors  in  flowing 
houmous  stalked  by  in  the  widening  streak  of  sun- 
shine along  the  western  walls ;  the  tinkle  of  goat-bells 
mingled  with  the  rhythmic  cries  of  their  drivers, 
oifering  a  cup  fresh-drawn  to  whomever  possessed 
a  copper;  now  an  orange  woman  hobbled  by,  chant- 
ing her  wares;  everjrwhere  flitted  swarthy  little  men 
in  misfit  rags,  with  small  baskets  of  immense  straw- 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  25 

berries  which  sold  for  a  song  to  all  but  the  tourists 
who  tailed  out  behind  me. 

Suddenly,  a  furlong  beyond  the  gate,  a  sign- 
board flashed  down  upon  me,  and  I  turned  instinc- 
tively in  at  the  open  door  of  the  "  Seaman's 
Institute.'*  I  foimd  myself  in  a  sort  of  restaurant, 
with  here  and  there  a  pair  of  England's  soldiers  at 
table,  and  a  towsled  youth  of  darker  tint  hanging 
over  the  bar.  I  commanded  ham  and  eggs;  when 
they  were  served  the  youth  dropped  into  the  chair 
opposite  and,  leaning  on  his  elbows,  smiled  speech- 
lessly upon  me,  as  if  the  sight  of  an  unfamiliar  face 
brought  him  extraordinary  pleasure. 

"  Room  to  put  me  up  ?  "  I  asked. 

*'  Nothin'  much  else  but  room,"  sighed  the  youth, 
in  the  slurring  speech  of  the  Anglo-Spanish  half- 
cast,  "  but  the  super 's  not  up  yet,  an'  I  'm  only 
the  skittles." 

I  left  my  baggage  in  his  keeping  and,  roaming 
on  through  the  rapidly  warming  city  to  the  Alameda 
Gardens,  clambered  away  the  day  on  the  blistered 
face  of  the  great  Rock  above. 

The  *'  super,"  a  flabby-muscled  tank  of  an  Eng- 
lishman, was  lolling  out  the  evening  among  his  cK- 
ents  when  I  reentered  the  Institute.  My  request 
for  lodging  roused  him  but  momentarily  from  his 
lethargy. 

*'  Sign  off  here  ?  "  he  drawled. 

"  Left  the  Prinzessht  this  morning,"  I  answered, 


26      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

suddenly  reminded  that  I  was  no  longer  a  seaman 
prepared  to  produce  my  discharge-book  on  demand. 

"A.B.,  eh?" 

"  Been  before  the  mast  on  the  Warwickshire, 
Glenr—'* 

I  "All  right.-  A  bob  a  night  is  our  tax.  But  no 
smoking  aloft,"  he  added,  as  I  dropped  a  coin  on 
the  table  before  him. 

"  'Ow  ye  like  Gib?  "  asked  the  half-cast,  leading 
the  way  up  a  narrow  stairway. 

"  Like  it,"  I  replied. 

**  Yes,  they  all  does,"  he  mourned,  "  for  one  day. 
But  'ow  if  you  'ad  always  to  bask  on  the  stewin' 
old  Rock,  like  a  bally  lizard?  Saint  Patrick!  If 
only  some  toff  'ud  pay  me  a  ticket  to  America ! " 

He  entered  a  great  room,  divided  by  thin  wooden 
partitions  into  a  score  of  small  ones,  and,  tramping 
down  a  hallway,  lighted  me  into  the  last  chamber. 
Opposite  the  cot  was  a  tall  window  with  heavy 
wooden  blinds.  I  flung  them  open  and  leaned  out 
over  the  reja;  and  all  at  once,  unheralded,  the  Spain 
of  my  dreams  leaped  into  reality.  Below,  to  one 
side,  flowed  the  murmuring  stream  of  Gibraltar's 
main  thoroughfare;  further  away  the  flat-roofed 
city  descended  in  moonlit  indistinctness  into  the  Med- 
iterranean. From  a  high-walled  garden  a  pebble- 
toes  away  and  canopied  with  fragrant  fruit-trees, 
rose  the  twang  of  a  guitar  and  a  man's  clear  voice 
singing  a  languorous  air  of  Andalusia.     Now  and 


A  'TWEENDECKS  JOURNEY  27 

again  a  peal  of  laughter  broke  on  the  night  and 
drifted  away  on  the  wings  of  the  indolent  sea-breeze. 
I  rolled  a  cigarette  and  lighted  it  pensively,  not  in 
contempt  for  the  "  super's "  orders,  but  because 
some  transgression  of  established  law  seemed  the 
only  fitting  celebration  of  the  untrammeled  summer 
that  was  opening  before  me. 


CHAPTER  II 

FOOTPATHS    OF    ANDALUSIA. 

GIBRALTAR  rises  early.  Proof  of  the  asser- 
tion may  be  lacking,  but  certainly  not  even  a 
*'  Rock  lizard  "  could  recompose  himself  for  another 
nap  after  the  passing  of  the  crashing  military  band 
that  snatched  me  at  daybreak  back  to  the  waking 
world.  With  one  bound  I  sprang  from  cot  to  win- 
dow. But  there  was  no  ground  for  alarm ;  in  gorge- 
like Waterport  street  below,  Thomas  Atkins,  a  regi- 
ment strong,  was  marching  briskly  barrackward, 
sweeping  the  flotsam  of  civilian  life  into  the  nooks 
and  crannies  of  the  flanking  buildings. 

According  to  the  Hoyle  of  travelers  a  glimpse  of 
Morocco  was  next  in  order.  But  with  the  absurdity 
of  things  inanimate  and  Oriental  both  the  TangicFS 
steamers  were  scheduled  to  loll  out  the  day  in  harbor. 
When  *'  Skittles  "  had  again  stowed  away  my  chat- 
tels, I  drifted  aimlessly  out  into  the  city.  But  the 
old  eagerness  to  tread  Spanish  soil  was  soon  upon  me, 
heightened  now  by  the  sight  of  Algeciras  gleaming 
across  the  bay.  The  harbor  steamer  would  have 
landed  me  there  a  mere  peseta  poorer.  Instead,  I 
sauntered   through   the   Landport   gate    and   away 

28 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  29 

along  the  shifting  highway  which  the  Holder  of  the 
Rock  has  dubbed,  in  his  insular  tongue,  the  "  Road 
to  Spain." 

It  led  me  past  the  double  rank  of  sentry  boxes 
between  which  soldiers  of  England  tramp  everlast- 
ingly, and  into  bandit-famed  La  Linea.  A  Spaniard 
in  rumpled  uniform  scowled  out  upon  me  from  the 
first  stone  hovel,  but,  finding  me  empty-handed,  as 
silently  withdrew.  I  turned  westward  through  the 
disjointed  town  and  out  upon  the  curving  shore  of 
the  bay. 

Here  was  neither  highway  nor  path.  Indeed,  were 
each  Spanish  minute  tagged  with  a  Broadway  price- 
mark,  the  peseta  would  have  been  dearly  saved,  for 
the  apparent  proximity  of  Algeciras  had  been  but  a 
tricking  of  the  eye.  Hour  after  hour  I  waded  on 
through  seashore  sand,  halting  now  and  then  in  the 
shadow  of  some  time-gnawed  watch-tower  of  the  de- 
parted Moor,  before  me  such  a  survey  of  the  shim- 
mering sea  to  the  very  base  of  the  hazy  African 
coast  as  amply  to  justify  the  setting  of  an  outlook 
on  this  jutting  headland. 

The  modem  guardian  of  the  coast  dwells  more 
lowly.  Every  here  and  there  I  came  upon  a  bleached 
and  tattered  grass  hut  just  out  of  reach  of  the  lan- 
guid surf,  and  under  it  a  no  less  ragged  and  listless 
carabinero  squatted  in  Arabic  pose  and  tranquillity, 
musket  within  reach,  or  frankly  and  audibly  asleep 
on  his  back  in  the  sand.     Yet  his  station,  too,  was 


80      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

wisely  chosen.  The  watch  and  ward  of  to-day  is  set 
for  no  war-trimmed  galley  from  the  rival  continent, 
but  against  petty  smugglers  skulking  along  the  rim 
of  the  bay.  Nor  could  the  guard  better  spend  his 
day  than  asleep :  his  work  falls  at  night. 

It  was  the  hour  of  siesta  when  I  shuffled  up  a 
sandy  bank  into  Algeciras.  Except  for  a  cur  or  two 
that  slunk  with  wilted  tail  across  the  plazOy  the  town 
lay  in  sultry  repose.  I  sat  down  in  a  shaded  comer 
of  the  square.  Above  me  nodded  the  aged  city  tower, 
housing  the  far-famed  and  often-cursed  bell  of 
Algeciras.  Recently,  which  is  to  say  some  time  dur- 
ing the  past  century,  it  was  cracked  from  rim  to 
crown;  and  the  city  fathers  have  not  yet  taken  up 
the  question  of  its  replacement.  Meanwhile,  it  con- 
tinues afflictingly  faithful  to  its  task.  At  quarter- 
hourly  intervals  it  clanked  out  across  the  bay  like  the 
suspended  hull  of  a  battleship  beaten  with  the  butt 
of  a  cannon,  a  languid  sigh  rose  over  the  drowsing 
city,  and  silence  settled  down  anew. 

As  the  shadows  spread,  life  revived,  slowly  and 
yawningly  at  first,  then  swelling  to  a  contrasting 
merry-making  that  reached  its  climax  toward  mid- 
night in  the  festooned  streets  beyond  the  plaza. 
Algeciras  was  celebrating  her  annual  feria.  Some- 
where I  fell  in  with  a  carpenter  in  blouse  and  hemp 
sandals,  whose  Spanish  flowed  musically  as  a  wood- 
land brook,  and  together  we  sauntered  out  the 
evening  among  the  lighted  booths.     The  amusement 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  31 

mongers  were  toiling  lustily.  Gypsy  and  clown, 
holerina^  juggler,  and  ballad-singer  drew  each  his 
little  knot  of  idlers,  but  a  multitude  was  massed  only 
around  the  gambling  tables.  Here  a  hubbub  of  ex- 
cited voices  assailed  the  ear;  an  incessant  rain  of 
coins  fell  on  the  green  cloth,  from  the  ragged  and 
the  tailored,  from  quavering  crones  and  little  chil- 
dren. The  carpenter  dived  into  the  fray  with  his 
only  peseta,  screaming  with  excitement  as  the  wheel 
stopped  on  the  number  he  had  played.  Within  an 
hour  a  pocket  of  his  blouse  was  bulging  with  silver. 
I  caught  him  by  the  sleeve  and  shouted  a  word  in  his 
ear.  Wild  horses  could  not  have  dragged  him  away, 
nor  the  voices  of  sirens  have  distracted  his  eyes  from 
the  spinning  trundle.  A  half -hour  later  he  did  not 
possess  a  copper. 

"  If  you  had  listened,"  I  said,  when  we  had  reached 
a  conversational  distance,  '*  you  would  not  have  lost 
your  fortune." 

"  What  fortune !  "  he  panted.  "  All  I  have  lost, 
seiior,  is  one  peseta,  and  had  an  evening  of  a  life- 
time." 

I  caught  the  morning  steamer  to  Gibraltar  and  an 
hour  later  was  pitching  across  the  neck  of  the  Medi- 
terranean on  board  the  Gebel  Dersa.  Third-class 
fare  to  Africa  was  one  peseta;  first-class,  ten;  and 
the  difference  in  accommodation  about  forty  feet, — 
to  wit,  the  distance  from  the  forward  to  the  after- 
deck.     One  peseta,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  the  fixed 


32       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

charge  for  any  service  in  this  comer  of  the  world. 
My  evening  meal,  the  night's  lodging,  the  boatman's 
fee  for  setting  me  aboard  the  steamer  had  each  cost 
as  much.  It  would  be  as  easy  to  quote  a  fixed  selling- 
price  for  mining-stocks  as  to  set  the  value  of  that 
delusive  Spanish  coin.  The  summer's  average,  how- 
ever, was  close  upon  sixteen  cents  for  the  peseta,  of 
which  the  centimo  is  the  hundredth  part.  There  are 
at  large,  be  it  further  noted,  a  vast  number  of  home- 
made pesetas  worth  just  sixteen  cents  less,  which 
show  great  affinity  for  the  stranger's  pocket  until 
such  time  as  he  learns  to  emulate  the  native  and  sound 
each  coin  on  the  stone  set  into  every  counter. 

It  was  while  we  were  skirting  the  calcined  town  of 
Tarifa  that  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  Aghmed 
Shat.  The  introduction  was  not  of  my  seeking  — 
but  of  the  ingratiating  ways  of  Aghmed  I  need  say 
nothing,  known  as  he  is  by  every  resident  of  our 
land.  At  least  I  can  recall  no  fellow-countryman 
whose  visiting-card  he  did  not  dig  up  from  the 
abysmal  confusion  of  his  inner  garments. 

To  that  host  of  admirers  it  will  bring  grief  to 
learn  that  Aghmed  was  most  unjustly  treated  aboard 
the  Gehel  Dersa  on  that  blistering  thirteenth  day  of 
June.  Yet  facts  must  be  reported.  It  chanced  that 
the  dozen  Anglo-Saxons  sprawled  ungracefully 
about  the  after-deck  composed,  at  such  times  as 
composure  was  possible,  a  single  party.  As  all  the 
world  knows,  it  is   for  no  other  purpose  than  to 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  33 

offer  the  protection  of  his  name  and  learning  to  just 
such  defenseless  flocks  that  the  high-bom  Moroccan 
gentleman  in  question  has  been  journeying  thrice 
weekly  to  the  Rock  these  thirty  years.  Yet  the  bell- 
wether of  the  party,  blind  to  his  opportunity,  had 
chosen  as  guide  an  ignorant,  vile,  ugly,  utterly  un- 
principled rascal  whose  only  motive  was  mercenary. 
True,  Aghmed  and  the  rascal  were  outwardly  as 
alike  as  two  bogus  pesetas.  But  surely  any  man 
worthy  the  title  of  personal  conductor  should  be 
versed  in  the  reading  of  character,  or  at  least  able 
to  distinguish  between  genuine  testimonials  from  the 
world's  elite  and  a  parcel  of  bald  forgeries !  Worst 
of  all,  the  leader,  with  that  stiff-neckedness  con- 
genital to  his  race,  had  persisted  in  his  error  even 
after  Aghmed  had  recounted  in  full  detail  the  rascal's 
crimes.  Small  wonder  there  was  dejection  in  the 
face  of  the  universally-recommended  as  he  crossed 
the  pitching  plank  that  connected  the  first-class  with 
the  baser  world,  his  skirts  threshing  in  the  wind,  his 
turban  awry. 

At  sight  of  me,  however,  he  brightened  visibly. 
With  outstretched  hand  and  a  wan  smile  he  minuetted 
forward  and  seated  himself  on  the  hatch  beside  me 
with  the  unobtrusive  greeting : 

*'  Why  for  you  travel  third-class?  " 

The  question  struck  me  as  superfluous.  But  it  is 
as  impossible  to  scowl  down  Aghmed's  spirit  of  in- 
vestigation as  to  stare  him  into  believing  an  Amer- 

3 


34       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

ican  a  Spaniard.  By  the  time  the  valleys  of  the 
African  coast  had  begun  to  take  on  indiriduality,  I 
had  heard  not  only  the  full  story  of  his  benevolent 
life  but  had  refused  for  the  twentieth  time  his  disin- 
terested offer  of  protection.  Nature,  however,  made 
Aghmed  a  guardian  of  his  fellow-man,  as  she  has 
made  other  hapless  mortals  poets ;  and  her  commands 
must  be  carried  out  at  whatever  sacrifice.  Gradually, 
slowly,  sadly,  the  *'  souvenir "  which  *'  americano 
gentlemen "  were  accustomed  to  bestow  upon  him 
with  their  farewell  hand-clasp  fell  from  twenty  shil- 
lings to  ten,  to  five,  to  three,  then  to  as  many  pesetas. 
It  was  useless  to  explain  that  I  had  trusted  to  my 
own  guidance  in  many  an  Arab  land,  and  been  fully 
satisfied  with  the  service.  When  every  other  argu- 
ment had  fallen  lifeless  at  his  slippered  feet,  he  sent 
forth  at  regular  intervals  the  sole  survivor,  cheering 
it  on  with  a  cloud  of  acrid  cigarette  smoke : 

**  Si  el  senor  " —  for  his  hamstrung  English  had 
not  far  endured  the  journey  — ^"  if  the  gentleman  has 
never  taken  a  guide,  this  will  be  a  new  experience." 

In  the  end  the  sole  survivor  won.  What,  after  all, 
is  travel  but  a  seeking  after  new  experience?  Here, 
in  truth,  was  one;  and  I  might  find  out  for  myself 
whether  a  full-grown  man  tagging  through  the 
streets  of  a  foreign  city  on  the  heels  of  a  twaddle- 
spouting  native  feels  as  ridiculous  as  he  looks. 

We  anchored  toward  noon  in  the  churning  harbor 
of  Tanglers  and  were  soon  pitched  into  the  pande- 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  35 

monium  of  all  that  goes  to  make  up  an  Oriental  mob 
lying  in  wait  for  touring  Europeans.  In  a  twink- 
ling, Aghmed  had  engaged  donkeys  to  carry  us  to 
the  principal  hotel.  I  paused  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  riot  to  inform  him  that  our  sight-seeing  would 
be  afoot ;  and  with  a  scream  of  astonishment  he  reeled 
and  would,  perhaps,  have  fallen  had  not  the  street 
been  paved  in  that  which  would  have  made  such  stage- 
business  unpleasant. 

"  Pero,  seiior ! "  he  gasped.  "  You  do  not  —  you 
—  why,  people  will  say  you  have  no  money ! " 

"  Horrible !  "  I  cried,  dodging  a  slaughtered  sheep 
on  the  head  of  a  black  urchin  in  scanty  night-shirt 
that  dashed  suddenly  out  of  a  slit  between  two  build- 
ings. Aghmed,  myopic  with  excitement,  failed  to 
side-step,  and  it  was  some  distance  beyond  that  his 
wail  again  fell  on  my  ear: 

"  O  seiior !  Americano  gentlemen  never  go  by  this 
street.     I  cannot  guide  without  donkeys  — '* 

*'  You  can  perhaps  run  along  home  to  dinner  ?  "  I 
suggested;  but  he  merely  fell  silent  and  pattered  on 
at  my  heels,  now  and  again  heaving  a  plaintive  sigh. 

For  the  better  part  of  the  day  we  roamed  in  and 
out  through  the  tangled  city.  In  the  confusion  of 
donkeys,  bare  legs,  and  immodesty,  the  narcotic 
smell  of  hashish,  the  sound  of  the  harsh  guttural 
tongue  once  so  familiar,  memories  of  more  distant 
Mohammedan  lands  surged  upon  me.  Yet  by  com- 
parison Tanglers  seemed  only  a  faded  segment  of 


36       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

the  swarming  Arab  world  set  aside  to  overawe 
European  tourists,  Arabic  enough  in  its  way,  but 
only  a  little,  mild-mannered  sample. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  I  rounded  the  beach  and, 
falling  upon  the  highway  to  Fez,  strolled  away  out 
of  sight  and  sound  of  the  seaport.  Aghmed  still 
languished  at  my  heels.  To  him  also  the  day  had 
brought  a  new  experience.  As  we  leaned  back 
against  a  grassy  slope  to  watch  the  setting  of  tht 
red  sun,  he  broke  a  long  hour's  silence. 

*'  Senor,"  he  said,  "  never  have  I  walked  so  much. 
When  we  had  come  to  the  Socco  I  was  tired.  When 
we  had  seen  all  the  city  my  legs  were  as  two  stone 
pillars.     Yet  I  must  keep  walking." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

"  Because  you  must  be  protected !  Ah,  seiior,  you 
do  not  know  how  dangerous  is  Tangiers ;  and  here  in 
the  country  alone  you  would  before  now  be  dead,  or 
carried  off  by  bandits.  Perhaps  this  much  walking 
will  make  me  sick.  Or  if  I  have  been  seen  by  my 
friends  or  a  gentleman  tourist!  Allah  meskeen! 
They  will  say  I  am  no  longer  a  gentleman  guide,  but 
a  donkey  boy." 

When  her  night  traffic  had  taken  on  its  wonted 
swing,  my  stone-legged  protector  called  at  the  inn 
for  the  purpose  of  proving  that  the  far-famed 
naughtiness  of  his  city  was  no  mere  conceit.  The 
demonstration  was  not  convincing.  Two  hours  or 
more  we  ambled  from  wineshop  to  cafe  cantantCy  en- 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  37 

during  a  deal  of  caterwauling  and  inane  vulgarity 
by  no  means  superior  to  a  Friday-night  performance 
on  the  Bowery.  The  relieving  shepherd's  crook, 
moreover,  being  nowhere  in  evidence,  I  fled  the  tor- 
ture and  retired  to  bed. 

To  my  infinite  relief,  Aghmed  was  on  hand  in  full 
health  next  morning  to  bid  me  farewell  at  the  end 
of  the  pier  and  to  receive  his  specified  "  souvenir." 
He  was  profuse,  too,  with  the  hope  that  I  might  soon, 
revisit  his  land;  but  I  caught  no  hint  of  a  desire  to 
add  my"  card  to  his  collection. 

The  steamer  plowed  her  way  back  to  Europe,  and 
by  mid-afternoon  I  emerged  from  the  Sailor's  Insti- 
tute face  to  face  with  a  serious  problem.  The  most 
patient  of  men,  which  I  am  not,  would  hardly  set  off 
on  a  tramp  across  the  Iberian  peninsula  carrying  a 
forty-pound  suitcase,  even  of  unread  classics.  To 
have  dumped  the  books  in  the  first  alleyway  would 
have  been  easy,  yet  painful,  for  there  runs  a  strain 
of  Scotch  in  my  veins.  I  dropped  in  on  the  nearest 
bookseller  to  inquire  whether  he  could  see  his  way 
clear  to  accept  at  a  bargain  a  batch  of  novels  newly 
imported  from  New  York.  But  the  eager  glow 
quickly  faded  from  his  features  as  I  laid  the  volumes 
before  him. 

"  Why,  sir ! "  he  cried.  *'  These  be  old  books,  out 
of  date.  I  thought  had  you  something  New  York 
is  reading  this  summer  — " 

In  which  attitude  his  two  rivals  also  dismissed  me. 


88       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

even  though  I  sought  the  good  will  of  the  last  by, 
squandering  the  bulk  of  a  bright  gold  sovereign  for 
Baedeker's  "  Spain."  As  I  turned  down  to  the  har- 
bor, a  thought,  or  more  exactly  the  sight  of  a  ser- 
geant's uniform  under  the  fortress  gate,  struck  me. 
The  wearer  stiffened  hke  a  ramrod  when  I  halted  be- 
fore him. 

"  Have  you  a  library  in  the  barracks  ?  " 

"  Ah  —  certainly,  garrison  library.  But  I  hardly 
fawncy  the  commander  would  allow — " 

"  Of  course  not,"  I  interrupted,  tossing  the  books 
into  his  arms ;  *'  but  I  am  off  for  Spain  and  if  you 
have  any  use  for  a  few  novels  — " 

"  Ah  —  er  —  well,  thank  you  most  kindly,  sir ! " 
bawled  the  officer  after  me. 

Though  the  fact  may  never  be  called  to  his  atten- 
tion, the  sergeant  had  heard  the  last  phrase  of  Eng- 
lish that  passed  my  lips  in  many  a  week.  As  a  per- 
sonal experiment  I  had  resolved  not  to  speak  a  word 
of  my  native  tongue  within  the  kingdom  of  Spain, 
even  to  myself ;  though  this  latter  proviso,  to  be  sure, 
necessitated  the  early  acquisition  of  a  few  Spanish 
terms  of  double  voltage. 

The  forerunner  of  evening  was  descending  upon 
Algeciras  as  I  mounted  through  her  now  all  but  voice- 
less fiesta  and  struck  away  over  a  grass-patched 
hillock.  The  further  slope  was  skirted  by  a  dusty 
highway  that  wound  off  through  a  billowy  country 
pregnant  with  the   promise   of   greater  heights   to 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  39 

come.  But  the  trend  of  the  road  was  west  rather 
than  north.  Over  the  hills  ahead  two  male  voices 
were  bawling  a  sort  of  dialogue  of  song.  I  mended 
my  pace  and  had  soon  overtaken  two  peasants  rol- 
licking homeward  from  the  festival.  When  I  Inquired 
if  this  were  the  highway  to  Madrid  they  fell  suddenly 
silent,  after  a  word  of  greeting,  and  strode  along  be- 
side me  exchanging  puzzled  glances. 

"  Well,  then,  to  Ronda,  senores  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Por- 
esta  carretera?  " 

**  No,  no,  senor !  "  they  answered  quickly.  "  Por 
aqui  no  !     You  must  go  on  the  railroad." 

"  No,  I  am  traveling  on  foot." 

"  Perf ectamente,  seiior ;  and  to  walk  to  Ronda  you 
must  take  the  railroad." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  mien  of  either  to  suggest 
the  practical  joker.  Yet  so  far  as  my  experience 
carried  there  was  not  a  corner  of  Europe  where  two 
steps  on  the  right  of  way  was  rated  less  a  crime  than 
arson  or  housebreaking. 

We  reached  the  line  not  far  beyond,  the  highway 
diving  under  by  a  stone-faced  cutting  and  bearing  the 
peasants  away  with  it.  Over  the  next  rise  their  dove- 
tailed duet  rang  out  again  and,  melting  in  volume 
and  rendered  almost  musical  by  distance,  filtered  back 
to  me  from  the  deepening  valleys  a  full  quarter-hour 
longer. 

I  climbed  the  embankment  not  without  misgiving. 
Sure  enough,  a  track  there  was,  beside  the  broad- 


40       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

gauge  rails,  covered  with  cinders  and  scarred  with 
many  imprints  of  donkey  hoofs.  A  mile  along  it 
demonstrated  how  poor  a  walking  kit  is  even  a  half- 
empty  suitcase.  I  sat  down  to  take  stock  of  the  con- 
tents. In  the  jumble  was  a  blue  flannel  shirt  past 
its  prime.  I  fished  out  thread  and  needle  and  sewed 
a  Jack-Tar  seam  across  the  garment  below  the  arm- 
pits, amputated  sleeves  and  shoulders  with  a  few; 
slashes,  and  behold  I  a  knapsack  that  might  bear  my 
burdens  through  all  the  kingdom  of  Spain,  and  hold 
its  own  in  any  gathering  of  shoulder-packed  way- 
farers. When  I  had  stuffed  my  possessions  into  it 
there  was  still  room  to  spare  for  such  odds  and  ends 
as  find  their  way  into  the  baggage  of  the  least 
acquisitive  of  travelers.  Then  pitching  the  suitcase 
spread-eagle  over  the  bordering  hedge,  I  cut  a  stick 
in  a  neighboring  thicket  and  struck  off  again  at  the 
regular  stride  so  indispensable  to  any  true  enjoyment 
of  tramping. 

Night  fell  soon  after.  A  fall  it  was  indeed;  no 
half-hearted  settling  down  of  gloom  as  in  our  north- 
em  zone,  but  a  descendant  flood  of  obscurity  that 
left  the  eyes  blinking  in  dismay.  To  right  and  left, 
where  had  been  rolling  uplands  and  heathered  fields 
sharp-cut  in  smallest  detail,  nothing  —  a  sea  of  inky 
blackness;  and  ahead,  the  stony-blind  unknown. 
The  cinder  path  held  firm,  but  only  a  foot  rubbing 
along  the  rail  guided  my  steps,  until  such  time  as 
sight  resumed  its  leadership. 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  41 

An  hour  or  more  I  inarched  on  into  the  summer 
night.     Then  out  of  the  darkness  ahead  stole  a  feeble 
point   of   light,   an   increasing   murmur   of   human 
voices,  and  the  end  of  the  first  day's  tramp  was  before 
me.     Beside  the  way  a  stone  building  stood  open,  an 
oil  torch  twilighting  a  cobble-floored  room  heaped 
at  one  end  with  a  Spanish  grocer's  wares.     An  un- 
shaven   man    of    fifty,    a   red    handkerchief   bound 
brigand-fashion    about    his    head,    bulked    forward 
through  an  inner  doorway. 
*'  You  furnish  lodgings?  " 
"  Si,  sefior ;  and  your  burro  ?  " 
"  I  am  walking.     Is  supper  to  be  had.?  " 
'*  Claro,  hombre !     Choose  from  the  baskets  and 
the  senora  shall  cook  it  for  you  in  a  twinkling." 

All  through  the  following  day  the  path  continued 
parasitic  to  the  railway.  The  roadbed  was  thickly 
covered  with  crushed  stone,  with  nowhere  a  hint  of 
the  existence  of  section-gangs.  On  either  hand 
rolled  away  a  landscape  stamped  with  the  features 
of  an  African  ancestry,  all  but  concealed  at  times 
by  the  cactus-trees  of  a  willow's  height  that  hedged 
the  track.  At  rare  intervals  a  stuccoed  station  serv- 
ing some  hamlet  hidden  among  the  hills  found  stand- 
ing-room on  the  ri^t  of  way.  An  occasional  hovel 
built  of  field  stones  frowned  down  from  the  crest  of 
a  parched  hillock.  Now  and  again  out  of  the  meet- 
ing-place of  the  rails  ahead  came  jogging  a  peasant 
seated  sidewise  on  an  ass,  to  swerve  suddenly  aside 


H       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

and  rattle  off  down  a  rocky  gorge,  singing  a  high- 
pitched  ballad  of  Arabic  cadence.  But  these  were 
but  bubbles  on  the  surface  of  a  fathomless  solitude, 
though  a  solitude  brilliant  with  an  all-invading  sun- 
shine that  left  no  skulking-place  for  somber  moods. 

It  turned  out  that  the  railroad  had  not  been  built 
for  the  exclusive  convenience  of  pedestrians  and 
donkeys.  A  bit  before  noon  a  rumbling  arose  out 
of  the  north,  and  no  unconscionable  time  thereafter 
the  daily  **  expreso  '*  roared  by  —  at  a  rate  close 
upon  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  The  ticket  collector, 
cigarette  in  mouth,  clambered  hand  over  hand  along 
the  running  board,  in  imminent  peril  of  losing  his 
footing  —  and  being  obliged  to  pursue  his  train  to 
the  next  station.  During  the  afternoon  there  passed 
two  "  mixtos,"  toy  freight  trains  with  a  caudal  car- 
load of  passengers.  But  the  speed  of  these  was  more 
reasonable,  varying  from  six  to  eight  miles,  with 
vacations  at  each  station  and  frequent  holidays  in  the 
open  country. 

The  sun  was  still  an  hour  high  when  I  reached  the 
station  of  San  Pablo.  This  time  the  town  itself 
stood  in  plain  sight,  pitched  on  the  summit  of  an 
oak-grown  hill  barely  a  mile  from  the  line.  I 
plunged  quickly  down  into  the  intervening  valley. 

It  was  a  checker-board  place,  perhaps  only  a  cen- 
tury or  two  old;  certainly  no  relic  of  the  Moor,  for 
there  was  not  a  sign  of  shop  or  market  in  all  its  ex- 
tent.    Only  in  the  last  street  did  I  catch  sight  of  one 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  43 

of  its  inhabitants,  dining  in  solitary  state  in  the 
center  of  a  bare  room.  He  stared  at  me  a  long  mo- 
ment when  I  halted  before  the  immense  open  window 
to  inquire  for  an  inn. 

"  San  Pablo,  senor,"  he  answered  at  last,  "  is  a 
private  town  owned  by  the  mining  company.  There 
is  no  inn." 

I  was  turning  away  when  he  continued: 

"  But  step  inside  and  we  shall  see  what  the  ama 
can  arrange  for  you." 

He  was,  as  I  had  guessed,  a  Frenchman,  an  expert 
employed  in  the  mines.  The  Spanish,  however,  in 
which  he  addressed  the  ama  was  faultless. 

"  Ah,  Don  Victor !  "  protested  that  matron,  *'  How 
can  I  give  posada,  having  no  license  from  the  govern- 
ment ?     And  without  the  permission  of  Don  Jose  — " 

"  Pepete,"  said  the  Gaul  to  an  urchin  peering  in 
upon  us,  "  ask  Don  Jose  to  have  the  goodness  to  step 
over.  He  is  manager  of  the  mines,"  he  continued, 
*'  and  so  alcalde  and  potentate  of  San  Pablo." 

It  would  have  been  a  misfortune,  indeed,  to  have 
journeyed  through  Andalusia  without  making  the 
acquaintance  of  Don  Jose.  He  burst  in  upon  us  a 
moment  later;  a  very  hippopotamus  of  a  man, 
dressed  in  baggy  trousers,  slouch  hat,  and  alpaca 
jacket.  Unfortunately  his  arrival  coincided  with 
my  announcement  that  I  was  walking  to  Cordoba  — 
the  whole  itinerary  would  have  been  too  strong  meat 
for  Latin   consumption  —  and   his   native  geniality 


44       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

was  for  a  time  overshadowed  by  astonishment  at  my 
extraordinary  means  of  locomotion.  I  had  all  but 
finished  the  meal  set  for  me  in  an  adjoining  room 
when  the  pair  entered  and  sat  down  beside  me. 

**  Senor,"  began  the  manager,  in  what  was  meant  to 
be  a  whisper,  "  you  cannot  walk  to  Cordoba.  It  is 
forty  leagues." 

"  How  much  money  have  you .''  "  put  in  the  French- 
man. 

"  Er  —  I  have  something  over  seven  pesetas,"  I 
answered. 

"  Bueno !  Bonisima !  "  cried  the  alcalde,  patting 
me  on  the  shoulder.  "  Don  Victor  and  I  will  add  the 
rest  and  I  shall  go  with  you  to  the  station  to  buy 
the  ticket  —  in  the  morning." 

Great,  I  reflected,  is  the  infant  mortality  among 
generous  resolutions  in  the  gray  of  dawn,  and  accord- 
ingly held  my  peace. 

Having  settled  my  future  to  his  own  satisfaction, 
Don  Jose  linked  an  arm  in  one  of  mine  and  plunged 
out  into  the  night. 

"  Your  bed  is  waiting  for  you  in  your  own  house," 
he  said  with  Spanish  formality.  '*  You  have  only  to 
say  the  word." 

The  first  syllable  of  which  I  had  not  found  time  to 
say  before  we  marched  full  front  into  San  Pablo's 
barrack-like  cafe.  A  roar  of  greeting  sounded 
through  the  dense  cloud  of  cigarette  smoke :  **  Buenas 
tardes !     Don  Jose !  " 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  45 

**  Buenas,  amigos !  Que  le  gusta ! "  returned  my 
companion,  and  pushing  toward  a  table  with  two 
vacant  chairs  he  continued  without  a  break,  *'  Un 
ponche,  Don  Gregariol  And  you,  senor?  Any- 
thing you  may  choose,  though  there  is  nothing  equal 
to  ponche.  Verdad,  Rufo?  "  Then  as  I  opened  my 
lips  to  express  a  preference,  "  Si !  si !  Don  Gregario ! 
Dos  ponches ! " 

The  room  was  filled  with  a  hundred  bronze-tinted 
miners  over  wine  and  cards.  Don  Jose  was  the  in- 
dustrial autocrat  of  every  man  present,  yet  one  would 
have  fancied  him  rather  a  brother  or  cousin,  so  free 
was  the  intercourse  from  haughtiness  on  the  one 
hand  and  servility  on  the  other.  Miner  and  man- 
ager addressed  each  other  by  their  given  names, 
shouted  at  each  other  in  friendly  dispute,  thumped 
each  other  fraternally  on  the  back.  Despite  all  which 
one  felt  absolute  assurance  that  when  labor  again 
caught  up  its  pick  the  manager's  word  would  com- 
mand instant  obedience. 

The  landlord,  flushed  with  the  exertion  of  their 
concoction,  soon  set  the  incomparable  beverages  be- 
fore us.  With  the  alacrity  of  a  man  who  will  have 
no  shadow  of  debt  hanging  over  his  head,  Don  Jose 
thrust  a  hand  into  a  pocket  of  his  alpaca  and  cast 
on  the  table  three  mammoth  coppers,  the  combined 
value  of  which  was  close  upon  five  cents.  With  the 
first  sip  he  rolled  a  cigarette  and  pushed  pouch  and 
papers  toward  me.     Then  having  introduced  me  as 


46       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

"  Senor  Newyorkano,"  he  plunged  headlong  into  the 
story  of  my  life,  addressing  not  merely  the  as- 
sembled miners  but  whomever  else  may  have  been 
prowling  within  gunshot  of  the  building.  "  And  to 
think,  amigos,"  he  concluded,  "  after  crossing  all 
the  sea  el  senor  should  have  wandered  into  San  Pablo 
looking  for  a  posada !  " 

The  company  beat  their  hands  on  the  tables  and 
howled  with  merriment.  Whatever  the  uproarious 
humor  of  that  climax  to  my  adventures,  it  lost  noth- 
ing of  its  poignancy  as  long  as  the  evening  lasted, 
and  served  to  top  off  a  score  of  otherwise  pointless 
tales. 

My  ignorance  of  the  Andalusian  game  notwith- 
standing, I  had  soon  taken  a  hand.  The  alcalde,  con- 
suming uncounted  cigarettes,  beamed  over  my  shoul- 
der shouting  praise  of  my  sagacity  each  time  I  caffl 
on  the  table  the  card  he  pointed  out.  As  for 
**  ponche,"  what  the  peerless  libation  lacked  in  favor 
with  the  masses  it  gained  in  the  unswerving  fidelity  of 
its  sponsor.  With  clock-like  regularity  his  reverbera- 
ting voice  rang  out  above  the  din  of  revelry :  "  Don 
Gregario,  un  ponche ! "  In  vain  did  I  announce  my 
thirst  permanently  abated,  in  vain  did  I  "  say  the 
word "  or  strive  at  least  to  take  advantage  of  the 
free  choice  offered  me.  My  protest  was  invariably 
drowned  in  the  roar  of  the  amended  order:  "  Sf,  sf ! 
Dos  ponches,  Don  Gregario ! " 

Evening  rolled  into  night,  night  into  morning,  and 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  47 

still  the  clank  of  copper  coins  continued.  Once  I 
attempted  to  forestall  the  diving  into  that  fathom- 
less alpaca  by  thrusting  a  hand  into  my  own  pocket. 
My  unquenchable  host  started  to  his  feet  with  a  bel- 
low that  seemed  to  set  the  very  walls  vibrating : 

*'  Strangers,  senor,  cannot  spend  money  in  San 
Pablo !     We  are  a  private  town !  " 

The  minute  hand  was  nearing  the  completion  of 
its  third  lap  when  a  general  uprising,  subtly  insti- 
gated by  the  landlord,  swept  the  carousers  into  the 
coal-black  night.  "  My  house  "  was  no  such  regal 
mansion  as  befitted  an  industrial  sovereign,  an  alcalde, 
and  a  man  of  unlimited  coppers  rolled  into  one.  It 
was  different,  to  be  sure,  from  the  other  bare  stone 
dwellings  of  San  Pablo,  but  only  in  the  wild  bachelor 
disorder  that  reigned  within  its  four  naked  walls. 
In  one  corner  was  a  mountainous  husk  mattress.  Its 
mate,  alleged  my  host,  lay  somewhere  buried  in  the 
jumble;  and  he  verified  the  assertion  not  long  after 
by  dragging  it  forth.  While  he  was  booting  this 
into  some  resemblance  to  a  bed,  I  kicked  off  my  shoes 
and  sank  into  profound  slumber. 

Don  Jose,  too,  awoke  at  sunrise.  His  generosity, 
however,  was  but  a  shadow  of  its  former  self.  On 
the  descent  from  the  town  he  listened  to  my  objec- 
tions to  the  proposed  charity  without  once  proffering 
a  reply.  In  the  depth  of  the  valley  he  halted  and 
stared  gloomily  up  at  the  steep,  sun-glazed  path  to 
the  station  observing  that  Providence  after  all  is 


48       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

the  appointed  guardian  of  the  foolhardy.  I  thrust 
out  a  hand.  He  shook  it  dejectedly  and,  bidding 
me  go  with  God  and  remember  there  is  no  drink  equal 
to  ponche,  set  out  to  clamber  his  way  back  to  the 
village. 

Beyond  the  curve  that  swept  San  Pablo  into  the 
past  a  stream  brawled  down  out  of  the  hills.  I 
climbed  a  little  way  up  the  gorge  and  came  upon  a 
tumbled  boulder  that  had  stored  up  a  pool  of  just 
the  depth  for  a  morning  plunge.  Further  on  the 
railway  grew  more  winding  with  every  mile.  The 
hills  increased  to  mountain  spurs,  and  soon  after 
came  the  mountains  themselves,  the  parched  and  rock- 
tumbled  Sierra  de  Ronda,  fertile  only  with  the  mem- 
ory of  smugglers  and  intricate  pathways.  The 
route  led  through  many  long,  sombrous  tunnels,  en- 
trance into  which  from  the  blazing  sunshine  was  like 
the  diving  into  a  mountain  lake.  Where  the  bur- 
rowings  ended,  the  line  became  still  more  circuitous, 
leaping  over  abysmal,  jagged  guUeys  by  massive 
dry  bridges. 

I  fasted  all  the  day;  for  it  was  Sunday,  and  the 
few  station  buildings  that  appeared  were  deserted. 
Yet  the  privation  passed  almost  unnoticed.  Were 
a  choice  to  be  made  I  would  willingly  sacrifice  any 
(day's  dinner  for  the  unfailing  sunshine  of  Spain, 
reinforced  by  the  pleasure  of  knowing  that  with  the 
new  dawn  another  unclouded  day  will  begin. 

My  night's  halt  was  beneath  swaying  palm-trees. 


A  Moorish  gate  of  Ronda 


A  gitana  of  Granada 


In  the  district  of  the  Alhambra 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  49 

Down  through  a  ravine  beside  the  track  were  scat- 
tered a  few  rambling  houses,  in  one  of  which  I  found 
accommodations.  Its  owner  was  a  peasant,  battered 
with  years,  who  sat  before  his  dwelling  smoking  in 
the  cool  of  evening  with  his  three  sons.  One  of 
these  was  a  guardia  civil  who  had  seen  all  the  prov- 
inces of  Spain,  and  whose  language  in  consequence 
was  Spanish.  His  brothers,  on  the  other  hand, 
spoke  the  crabbed  dialect  of  Andalusia.  I  caught 
the  sense  of  most  of  their  remarks  only  at  the  third 
or  forth  repetition,  to  their  ever-increasing  aston- 
ishment. 

"  Hermano,"  interrupted  the  guardia  once,  "  you 
know  you  do  not  speak  Spanish?  " 

The  speaker  fell  silent  and  listened  for  some  time 
open-mouthed  to  his  brother  in  uniform. 

"  Caracoles !  "  he  cried  suddenly.  "  I  speak  no 
other  tongue  than  you,  brother,  except  for  the  fine 
words  you  have  picked  up  at  las  Cortes ! " 

Which  was  exactly  the  difficulty.  The  "  fine " 
words  were  of  pure  Castilian,  for  which  the  rural 
andaluz  substitutes  terms  left  behind  by  the  Moor. 
Furthermore  his  speech  is  guttural,  explosive,  slov- 
enly, more  redolent  of  Arabic  than  of  Spanish.  He 
is  particularly  prone  to  slight  the  S.  His  version 
of  "  estes  senores  "  is  *'  ete  senore."  Which  is  com- 
prehensible; but  how  shall  the  stranger  guess  that 
"  cotoa  e*  ?  juti'a  "  is  meant  to  convey  the  informa- 
tion that  "  la  justicia  es  costosa''  " 

4 


50       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

My  evening  meal  consisted  of  a  gazpacho,  olives, 
eggs,  cherries,  blood-dripping  pomegranates,  a  rich 
brown  bread,  and  wine;  my  couch  of  a  straw  mat- 
tress in  a  comer  of  the  great  kitchen  —  and  my  reck- 
oning was  barely  twelve  cents. 

Afoot  with  the  dawn,  I  had  soon  entered  the  vast 
cork  forest  that  covers  all  the  northern  slope  of  the 
sierra.  Wherever  a  siding  offered,  stood  long  rows 
of  open  freight  cars  piled  high  with  bales  of  the 
Bpongy  bark ;  the  morning  "  mixto "  hobbled  by 
bearing  southward  material  seemingly  sufficient  to 
stop  all  the  bottles  in  Christendom. 

By  rail  Ronda  was  still  a  long  day  distant  —  but 
not  afoot.  Before  the  morning  was  old  I  came  upon 
the  beginning  of  the  short-cut  which  my  hosts  of 
the  night  had  described.  It  straggled  uncertainly 
upward  for  a  time  across  a  rolling  sandy  country 
knobbed  with  tufts  of  withered  grass  and  overspread 
with  mammoth  cork-trees,  some  still  unbarked,  some 
standing  stark  naked  in  the  blistering  sun.  Then  all 
at  once,  path,  sand  and  vegetation  ceased,  and  above 
me  stretched  to  the  very  heavens  the  grilling  face  of 
a  bare  rock.  I  mounted  zigzagging,  as  up  the  slate 
roof  of  some  gigantic  church,  swathed  in  a  heat  that 
burned  through  the  very  soles  of  my  shoes.  A  mile 
up,  two  guardias  civiles  emerged  suddenly  from  a 
fissure,  the  sun  glinting  on  their  muskets  and  polished 
black  three-cornered  hats.  Here,  then,  of  all  places, 
was  to  be  my  first  meeting  with  these  officious  felp 


FOOTPATHS  OF  ANDALUSIA  61 

lows,  whose  inquisitiveness  was  reported  the  chief 
drawback  to  a  tramp  in  Spain.  But  they  greeted 
me  with  truly  Spanish  politeness,  even  cordiality. 
Only  casually,  when  we  had  chatted  a  bit,  as  is  wont 
among  travelers  meeting  on  the  road,  did  one  of  them 
suggest : 

"  You  carry,  no  doubt,  senor,  your  personal 
papers  ?  " 

I  dived  into  my  shirt  —  my  knapsack,  and  drew 
out  my  passport.  The  officers  admired  it  a  moment 
side  by  side  without  making  so  bold  as  to  touch  it, 
thanked  me  for  privilege,  raised  a  forefinger  to  their 
hats,  and  stalked  on  down  the  broiling  rock. 

A  full  hour  higher  I  brought  up  against  a  sheer 
precipice.  Of  the  town  that  must  be  near  there  was 
still  not  a  trace.  For  some  time  longer  I  marched 
along  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  swinging  half  round  a 
circle  and  always  mounting.  Then  all  at  once  the 
impregnable  wall  gave  way,  a  hundred  white  stone 
houses  burst  simultaneously  on  my  sight,  and  I  en- 
tered a  city  seething  in  the  heat  of  noonday. 


CHAPTER  m 

THE  LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR 

RONDA  crouches  on  the  bald  summit  of  a  rock 
so  mighty  that  one  can  easily  fancy  it  the 
broken  base  of  some  pillar  that  once  upheld  the 
sky.  Nature  seems  here  to  have  established  divi- 
Bion  of  labor.  The  gigantic  rock  bearing  aloft  the 
city  sustains  of  itself  not  a  sprig  of  vegetation. 
Below,  so  far  below  that  Ronda  dares  even  in  sum- 
mer to  fling  down  unburied  the  mutilated  carcasses 
from  her  bullring,  spreads  the  encircling  vega,  pro- 
ducing liberally  for  the  multitude  above,  but  grant- 
ing foothold  scarcely  to  a  peasant's  hovel.  Beyond 
and  round  about  stretches  the  sierra,  having  for  its 
task  to  shelter  the  city  against  prowling  storms  and 
to  enrich  the  souls  of  her  inhabitants  with  its  rugged 
grandeur. 

Travelers  come  to  Ronda  chiefly  to  gaze  elsewhere. 
As  an  outlook  upon  the  world  she  is  well  worth  the 
coming ;  as  a  city  she  is  almost  monotonous,  with  her ' 
squat,  white-washed  houses  sweltering  in  the  omniv- 
orous sunshine.  Her  only  "  sight "  is  the  Tajo, 
the  "  gash  "  in  the  living  rock  like  the  mark  of  some 
powerful  woodman's  ax  in  the  top  of  a  tree-stump. 

62 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR       53 

A  stork-legged  bridge  spans  it,  linking  two  unequal 
sections  of  the  town,  which  without  this  must  be  utter 
strangers.  A  stream  trickles  along  its  bottom,  how 
deep  down  one  recognizes  only  when  he  has  noted 
how  like  toy  buildings  are  the  grist-mills  that  squat 
beside  it  pilfering  their  power. 

Elsewhere  within  the  town  the  eyes  wander  away 
to  the  enclosing  mountains.  The  wonder  is  not  that 
her  inhabitants  are  dreamy-eyed;  rather  that  they 
succeed  at  intervals  in  shaking  off  the  spell  of 
nature's  setting  to  play  their  roles  in  life's  prosaic 
drama.  As  for  myself,  I  rambled  through  her  pip- 
ing streets  for  half  the  afternoon  because  she  is 
Spanish,  and  because  my  supply  of  currency  was 
falling  low.  Ronda  boasts  no  bank.  Her  chief 
dry-goods  merchant,  however  —  by  what  right  my 
informant  could  not  guess  —  boasts  himself  a  banker. 
I  found  the  amateur  financier  at  home,  which  chanced 
to  be  distant  the  height  of  one  short  stairway  from 
his  place  of  business.  When  I  had  chatted  an  hour 
or  two  with  his  clerks,  the  good  man  himself  ap- 
peared, rosy  with  the  exertions  of  the  siesta,  and  ex- 
amined the  ten-dollar  check  with  many  expressions  of 
gratitude  for  the  opportunity. 

"  We  shall  take  pleasure,"  he  said,  "  in  liquidating 
this  obligation.  You  will,  of  course,  bring  persons  of 
my  acquaintance  to  establish  your  identity,  como  es 
costumbre  in  large  financial  transactions?  " 

I  had  never  so  fully  realized  how  convincing  was 


54      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

my  command  of  Spanish  as  when  I  had  succeeded 
within  an  hour  in  convincing  this  bond-slave  of 
*'  costumbre "  that  express-checks  are  designed  to 
avoid  just  this  difficulty.  He  expressed  a  desire  to 
examine  the  document  more  thoroughly  and  retired 
with  it  to  the  depths  of  his  establishment.  Toward 
evening  he  returned  with  pen  and  ink-horn. 

"  I  accept  the  obligation,"  he  announced,  *'  and 
shall  pay  you  fifty-seven  pesetas,  according  to  yes- 
terday's quotation  on  the  Borsa.  But  I  find  I  have 
such  a  sum  on  hand  only  in  coppers." 

"  Which  would  weigh,"  I  murmured,  after  the 
necessary  calculation,  "  something  over  thirty 
pounds.  You  will  permit  me,  seiior,  to  express  my 
deep  gratitude  —  and  to  worry  along  for  the  time 
being  with  the  money  in  pocket." 

Travelers  who  arraign  Honda  for  lack  of  creature 
comforts  can  never  have  been  assigned  the  quarters 
a  peseta  won  me  for  the  night  in  the  "  Parador  de 
Vista  Hermosa."  The  room  was  a  house  in  itself, 
peculiarly  clean  and  home-like,  and  furnished  not 
only  with  the  necessities  of  bed,  chairs,  and  taper- 
lighted  effigy  of  the  Virgin,  but  with  table,  wash- 
stand,  and  even  a  bar  of  soap,  the  first  I  had  seen 
in  the  land  except  that  in  my  own  knapsack.  When 
the  sun  had  fallen  powerless  behind  the  sierra,  I 
drew  the  green  reed  shade  and  found  before  my 
window  a  little  rejaed  balcony  hanging  so  directly 
over  the  Tajo  that  the  butt  of  a  cigarette  fell  whirl- 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR       55 

ing  down,  down  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  gorge. 
I  dragged  a  chair  out  into  the  dusk  and  sat  smoking 
beneath  the  star-sprinkled  sky  long  past  a  pedestrian's 
bedtime,  the  unbroken  music  of  the  Guadalvin  far 
below  ascending  to  mingle  with  the  murmur  of  the 
strolling  city. 

To  the  north  of  Honda  begins  a  highway  that 
goes  down  through  a  country  as  arid  and  rock- 
strewn  as  the  anti-Lebanon.  Here,  too,  is  much  of 
the  Arab's  contempt  for  roads.  Donkeys  bearing 
singing  men  tripped  by  along  hard-beaten  paths  just 
far  enough  off  the  public  way  to  be  no  part  of  it. 
Now  and  again  donkey  and  trail  rambled  away  in- 
dependently over  the  thirsty  hills,  perhaps  to  return 
an  hour  beyond,  more  often  to  be  swallowed  up  in 
the  unknown.  The  untraveled  carretera  lay  inches 
deep  in  fine  white  dust.  Far  and  near  the  landscape 
was  touched  only  with  a  few  slight  patches  of 
viridity.  The  solitary  tree  under  which  I  tossed 
through  an  hour  of  siesta  cast  the  stringy,  wavering 
shade  of  a  bean-pole. 

Sharp-eyed  with  appetite,  I  came  near,  neverthe- 
less, to  passing  unseen  early  in  the  afternoon  a  vil- 
lage hidden  in  plain  sight  along  the  Hank  of  a  red- 
dish, barren  hill.  In  this,  too,  Andalusia  resembles 
Asia  Minor;  her  hamlets  are  so  often  of  the  same 
colored  or  colorless  rocks  as  the  hills  on  which  they 
are  built  as  frequently  to  escape  the  eye.  I  forded 
a   bone-dry   brook    and    climbed    into    the   tumbled 


56      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

piieblo.  Toward  the  end  of  the  principal  lack  of  a 
street  one  of  the  crumbling  hovel-fronts  was  scrawled 
in  faded  red,  with  the  Spaniard's  innocent  indis- 
tinction  between  the  second  and  twenty-second  letters 
of  the  alphabet: 

Once  admitted  to  the  sleepy  interior,  I  regaled  my- 
self on  bread,  cheese,  and  "  bino  "  and  scrambled  back 
to  the  highway.  It  wandered  more  and  more  errat- 
ically, slinking  often  around  hills  that  a  bit  of  ex- 
ertion would  have  surmounted.  I  recalled  the  in- 
dependence of  the  donkeys  and,  picking  up  a  path  at 
an  elbow  of  the  route,  struck  off  across  the  rugged 
country. 

But  there  is  sound  truth,  as  in  all  his  venerable  if 
somewhat  baggy-kneed  proverbs,  in  the  Spaniard's 
assertion  that  "  no  hay  atajo  sin  trabajo."  In  this 
short-cut  there  was  work  and  to  spare.  As  long  as 
the  day  lasted  the  way  continued  stiff  and  stony, 
ceaselessly  mounting  or  descending,  with  never  a 
level  of  breathing-space  breadth  nor  a  moment's  re- 
spite from  the  rampant  sunshine.  A  few  times  I 
stumbled  upon  an  inhabited  heap  of  stones  in  a  fold 
of  the  hiUs.  Man,  at  least  fully  clothed,  seemed 
never  before  to  have  strayed  thus  far  afield.  From 
each  hutch  poured  forth  a  shaggy  fellow  with  his 
draggled  mate  and  a  flock  of  half-naked  children. 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR        57 

all  to  stare  speechlessly  after  me  as  long  as  the  crown 
of  my  hat  remained  in  sight. 

The  highway  had  deserted  me  entirely.  As  dark- 
ness came  on,  the  dimming  outline  of  the  cragged 
hills  rising  on  either  hand  carried  the  thoughts  more 
than  ever  back  to  the  savage,  Bedouin-skulking  soli- 
tudes of  Asia  Minor.  Long  after  these,  too,  had 
blended  into  the  night  I  stumbled  on.  At  length 
there  fell  on  my  ear  the  distant  dismal  howling  of 
dogs.  I  pressed  forward,  and  when  the  sound  had 
grown  to  a  discordant  uproar  plunged,  stick  in  hand, 
into  a  chaos  of  buildings  jumbled  together  on  a  rocky 
ridge, —  the  village  of  Penarruria. 

The  twisting,  shoulder-broad  channels  between  the 
predelugian  hovels  were  strewn  with  cobblestones,  no 
two  of  equal  size  or  height,  but  all  polished  icy 
smooth.  I  sprawled  and  skated  among  them,  a  prey 
to  embarrassment  for  my  clumsiness,  until  my  con- 
fusion was  suddenly  dispelled  by  the  pleasure  of  see- 
ing a  native  fall  down,  a  buxom  girl  of  eighteen 
who  suffered  thus  for  her  pride  in  putting  on  shoes. 
Throughout  the  town  these  were  rare,  and  stockings 
more  so. 

The  venta  into  which  I  straggled  at  last  was  the 
replica  of  an  Arabic  Jchan,  as  ancient  as  the  days  of 
Tarik.  It  consisted  of  a  covered  barnyard  court 
surrounded  by  a  vast  corridor,  with  rock  arches  and 
pillars,  beneath  which  mules,  horricoSy  and  a  horse 
or  two  were  munching.     One  archway  near  the  en- 


58       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

trance  was  given  over  to  human  occupation.  The 
posadero  grumbled  at  me  a  word  of  greeting;  his 
wife  snarled  interminably  over  her  pots  and  jars  in 
preparing  me  a  meager  supper.  Now  and  again  as 
I  ate,  an  arriero  arrived  and  led  his  animal  through 
the  dining-room  to  the  stable.  I  steeled  myself  to 
endure  a  rough  and  stony  night. 

When  I  had  sipped  the  last  of  my  wine,  however, 
the  hostess,  sullen  as  ever,  mounted  three  stone  steps 
in  the  depth  of  the  archway  and  lighted  me  into  a 
room  that  was  strikingly  in  contrast  with  the  dun- 
geon-like inn  proper.  The  chamber  was  neatly,  even 
daintily  furnished,  the  walls  decorated  college-fash- 
ion with  pictures  of  every  size  and  variety,  the  tile 
floor  carpeted  with  a  thick  rug,  the  bed  veiled  with 
lace  curtains.  It  was  distinctly  a  feminine  room ;  and 
as  I  undressed  the  certainty  grew  upon  me  that  I 
had  dispossessed  for  the  night  the  daughter  of  the 
house,  who  had  turned  out  to  be  none  other  than 
that  maid  whose  pride-shod  downfall  had  so  relieved 
my  embarrassment.  Evidently  the  venta  of  Pena- 
rruria  afforded  no  other  accommodations  befitting  a 
guest  who  could  squander  more  than  a  half  peseta 
for  a  mere  night's  lodging. 

Over  the  head  of  the  bed,  framed  in  flowers  and 
the  dust-dry  memento  of  Palm  Sunday,  was  a  chromo 
misrepresentation  of  the  Virgin,  beneath  which 
flickered  a  wick  floating  in  oil.  I  was  early  trained 
to  sleep  in  darkness.     When  I  had  endured  for  a 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR       69 

long  half -hour  the  dancing  of  the  light  on  my  eye- 
lids, I  rose  to  blow  it  out,  and  sank  quickly  into 
slumber. 

I  had  all  but  finished  my  coffee  and  wedge  of  black 
bread  next  morning  when  a  double  shriek  announced 
that  my  forgotten  sacrilege  had  been  discovered. 
The  modem  vestal  virgins,  in  the  persons  of  the 
posadera  and  her  now  barefoot  daughter,  charged 
fire-eyed  out  of  my  erstwhile  quarters  and  swooped 
down  upon  me  like  two  lineal  descendants  of  the 
Grecian  Furies.  I  mustered  such  expression  of  in- 
nocence and  fearlessness  as  I  was  able  and  listened  in 
silence.  They  exhausted  in  time  their  stock  of  blis- 
tering adjectives  and  dashed  together  into  the  street 
publishing  their  grievance  to  all  Penarruria.  Grad- 
ually the  shrill  voices  died  away  in  the  contorted 
village,  and  with  them  my  apprehension  of  figuring 
in  some  modern  auto  da  fe.  As  I  was  picking  up 
my  knapsack,  however,  an  urchin  burst  in  upon  me 
shouting  that  the  guardia  civil  thereby  summoned  me 
into  his  presence. 

**  Ha,"  thought  I,  "  Spain  has  merely  grown  more 
up-to-date  in  dealing  with  heretics." 

The  officer  was  not  to  be  avoided.  He  sat  before 
a  building  which  I  must  pass  to  escape  from  the 
town ;  a  deep-eyed  man  who  manipulated  his  cigarette 
with  one  hand  while  he  slowly  ran  the  fingers  of  the 
other  through  the  only  beard,  perhaps,  in  all  the 
dreaded  company  of  which  he  was  a  member.     His 


eO       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

greeting,  however,  was  <cordial,  almost  diffident.  In 
fact,  the  cause  of  my  summons  was  quite  other  than 
I  had  apprehended.  Having  learned  my  nationality 
from  the  inn  register,  he  had  made  so  bold  as  to  hope 
that  I  would  delay  my  departure  long  enough  to 
give  him  a  cigarette's  worth  of  information  concern- 
ing the  western  hemisphere. 

**  I  have  resigned  from  the  guardia,"  he  said  in 
explanation  of  his  un-Spanish  curiosity,  "  and  in 
three  months  I  go  to  make  cigars  in  your  Tampa, 
in  la  Florida.  Spain  can  no  longer  feed  her  chil- 
dren." 

I  sketched  briefly  the  life  in  the  new  world,  not 
forgetting  to  picture  some  of  the  hardships  such 
a  change  must  bring  a  man  of  the  fixed  habits  of 
forty,  and  took  leave  of  him  with  the  national  bene- 
diction. 

For  some  hours  I  trudged  on  across  a  country 
similar  to  that  of  the  day  before.  The  heat  was  Afri- 
can. The  Spanish  summer  resembles  an  intermit- 
tent fever;  with  nightfall  comes  an  inner  assurance 
that  the  worst  is  over,  and  infallibly  with  the  new 
day  the  blazing  sun  sends  down  its  rays  seemingly 
more  fiercely  than  before.  The  reflection  of  how 
agreeable  would  be  a  respite  from  its  fury  was 
weaving  itself  into  my  thoughts  when  I  swooped 
suddenly  down  upon  a  railway  at  a  hamlet  named 
Gobantes.  I  had  no  hope  of  covering  all  Spain 
afoot.     Away   among   the   hills    to    the    north   the 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR        61 

whistle  of  a  locomotive  that  moment  sounded.  I 
turned  aside  to  the  station  and  bought  a  ticket  to 
Malaga. 

The  train  squirmed  away  through  howling,  arid 
mountains,  abounding  in  tunnels  and  tumbled  bot- 
tomless gorges ;  then  descending  headlong  to  the 
plain,  landed  me  at  the  seaport  in  mid-afternoon. 
Even  Malaga  on  the  seashore  suffers  from  the  heat. 
Her  Alameda  was  thick  in  dust  as  an  Andalusian 
highway;  beneath  the  choking  trees  that  bordered 
it  the  stone  benches  were  blistering  to  the  touch. 
The  excursion  was  rewarded,  however,  if  by  nothing 
more  than  the  mighty  view  of  the  sail-flecked 
Mediterranean  from  the  summit  of  the  Gibilfaro, 
reached  by  a  dripping  climb  through  shifting  rubble 
and  swarms  of  begging  gypsy  children.  Africa 
was  visible,  dimly  but  unmistakably.  Below  sim- 
mered the  city,  unenlivened  by  a  single  touch  of 
green;  to  the  right  the  vega  stretched  floor-level  to 
the  foot  of  the  treeless  Alhama.  Directly  beneath 
me,  like  some  vast  tub,  yawned  the  bullring,  empty 
now  but  for  a  score  of  boys  playing  at  "  torero," 
flaunting  their  jackets  in  the  face  of  an  urchin  fitted 
with  paper  horns,  and  dashing  in  pretended  terror 
for  the  barrier  when  he  turned  upon  them.  The 
ascent  of  the  Gibilfaro  must  certainly  be  forbidden 
on  Sunday  afternoons.  From  this  height  the  strug- 
gle in  the  arena,  visible  in  its  entirety,  yet  purged 
by  distance  of  its  unpleasing  details,  would  be   a 


62       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

scene  more  impressive  than  from  the  best  seat  in  the 
tribunes. 

When  I  reached  the  station  next  morning  the  plat- 
form gate  was  locked  and  the  train  I  had  hoped  to 
take  was  legally  departed.  A  railway  hanger-on,  in 
rags  and  hemp  sandals,  however,  climbed  the  iron 
picket  fence  and  shouted  a  word  to  the  engineer. 
Then  beckoning  to  me  to  follow,  he  trotted  back  into 
the  building  and  rapped  authoritatively  on  the  closed 
window  of  the  ticket-office. 

"  Senor,"  he  said,  as  the  agent  looked  out  upon 
us,  "  be  kind  enough  to  sell  this  caballero  a  ticket." 

'*  The  train  is  gone,"  answered  the  agent. 

**  Not  so,  senor,"  replied  the  bundle  of  rags 
haughtily ;  "  I  am  having  it  held  that  this  cavalier 
may  take  it." 

"  Ah,  very  well,"  responded  the  official ;  and  hav- 
ing sold  me  the  ticket,  he  handed  to  the  hanger-on 
the  key  to  the  platform  gate.  As  I  passed  through 
it  the  latter  held  out  his  hand,  into  which  I  dropped 
a  copper. 

*'  Muchisimas  gracias,  caballero,"  he  said,  bowing 
profoundly,  "  and  may  your  grace  forever  travel 
with  God." 

It  was  noon  when  I  descended  at  Bobadilla,  the 
sand-swept  junction  where  all  southern  Spain 
changes  cars.  The  train  to  Granada  was  soon  jolt- 
ing away  to  the  eastward.  Within  the  third-class 
compartment  the  heat  was  flesh-smelting.     The  bare 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR       63 

wooden  cell,  of  the  size  of  a  piano-crate,  was  packed 
not  merely  to  its  lawful  and  unreasonable  capacity 
of  ten  persons,  but  with  all  the  personal  chattels 
under  which  nine  of  those  persons  had  been  able  to 
totter  down  to  the  station.  Between  the  two  plank 
benches,  that  danced  up  and  down  so  like  the  screen 
of  a  threshing  machine  as  to  deceive  the  blind  man 
beside  me  into  the  ludicrous  notion  that  the  train 
was  moving  rapidly,  was  heaped  a  cart-load.  To 
attempt  an  inventory  thereof  would  be  to  name  every- 
thing bulky,  unpleasing,  and  sharp-cornered  )that 
ever  falls  into  the  possession  of  the  Spanish  peasant. 
Suffice  it  to  specify  that  at  the  summit  of  the  heap 
swayed  a  crate  of  chickens  whose  cackling  sounded 
without  hint  of  interruption  from  Bobadilla  to  the 
end  of  the  journey. 

The  national  characteristics  of  third-class  are 
clearly  marked.  Before  a  French  train  is  well  under 
way  two  men  are  sure  to  fall  into  some  heated  dispute, 
to  which  their  companions  give  undivided  but  speech- 
less attention.  The  German  rides  in  moody  silence; 
the  Italian  babbles  incessantly  of  nothing.  An  Eng- 
lishman endures  a  third-class  journey  frozen-fea- 
tured as  if  he  were  striving  to  convince  his  fellows 
that  he  has  been  thus  reduced  for  once  because  he 
has  bestowed  his  purse  on  the  worthy  poor.  But  the 
truly  democratic  Spaniard  settles  down  by  the  com- 
partmentful  into  a  cheery  family.  Not  one  of 
my   fellow-sufferers   but  had   some   reminiscence   to 


f 
64      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

relate,  not  a  question  arose  to  which  each  did  not 
oflFer  his  frank  opinion.  He  who  descended  carried 
awaj  with  him  the  benediction  of  all;  the  newcomer 
became  in  a  twinkling  a  full-fledged  member  of  the 
impromptu  brotherhood. 

Nine  times  I  was  fervently  entreated  to  partake  of 
a  traveler's  lunch,  and  my  offer  to  share  my  own 
afternoon  nibble  was  as  many  times  declined  with 
wishes  for  good  appetite  and  digestion.  Travelers 
who  assure  us  that  this  custom  inherited  from  the 
Moor  has  died  out  in  Spain  are  in  error;  it  is  dead 
only  among  foreigners  in  first-class  carriages  and 
tourist  hotels  —  who  never  had  it.  The  genuine 
Spaniard  would  sooner  slap  his  neighbor  in  the  face 
than  to  eat  before  him  without  begging  him  to  share 
the  repast. 

We  halted  more  than  frequently.  On  each  such 
occasion  there  sounded  above  the  last  screech  of  the 
brakes  the  drone  of  a  guard  announcing  the  length 
of  the  stay.  Little  less  often  the  traveler  in  the 
further  corner  of  the  compartment  squirmed  his  way 
to  the  door  and  departed.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  the 
survivors  divided  the  space  equitably  between  them 
—  and  were  incontinently  called  upon  to  yield  it  up 
again  as  some  dust-cloaked  peasant  flung  his  bag  of 
implements  against  my  legs  with  a  cheery  "  buenas 
tardes  "  and  climbed  in  upon  us. 

Then  came  the  task  of  again  getting  the  train 
under  way.     The  brusk  **  all  aboard  "  of  our  own 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR        65 

land  would  be  unbearably  rude  to  the  gentle  Spanish 
ear.  Whence  every  station,  large  or  small,  holds  in 
captivity  a  man  whose  only  duty  in  life  seems  to  be 
that  of  announcing  the  departure  of  trains.  He  is 
invariably  tattered,  sun-bleached,  and  sandal-footed, 
with  the  general  appearance  of  one  whom  life  has 
used  not  unkindly  but  confounded  roughly.  How 
each  station  succeeds  in  keeping  its  announcer  in 
the  pink  of  dilapidation  is  a  Spanish  secret.  But 
there  he  is,  without  fail,  and  when  the  council  of 
officials  has  at  length  concluded  that  the  train  must 
depart,  he  patters  noiselessly  along  the  edge  of  the 
platform,  chanting  in  a  music  weird,  forlorn,  purely 
Arabic,  a  phrase  so  rhythmic  that  no  printed  words 
can  more  than  faintly  suggest  it : 

"  Seno-o-o-res  viajeros  al  tre-e-e-en." 
*'  Gentlemen  travelers  to  the  train  "  is  all  it  means 
in  mere  words;  but  rolling  from  the  lips  of  one  of 
these  forlorn  captives  it  seems  to  carry  with  it  all  the 
history  of  Spain,  and  sinks  into  the  soul  like  a  voice 
from  the  abysmal  past. 

Among  my  fellow-passengers  was  the  first  Span- 
ish priest  with  whom  I  came  into  conversational  con- 
tact. In  the  retrospect  that  fact  is  all  but  effaced 
by  the  memory  that  he  was  not  merely  the  first  but 
the  only  Spaniard  who  ever  declined  my  proffer  of 
a  cigarette.  To  one  eager  to  find  the  prevailing 
estimation  of  the  priesthood  of  Spain  false  or  vastly 
overdrawn,    this    first    introduction    to    the    gown 


66       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

augured  well.  He  was  neither  fat  nor  sensual; 
rather  the  contrary,  with  the  lineaments  of  a  man 
sincere  in  his  work  and  beneficent  in  his  habits.  His 
manner  was  aflPable,  without  a  hint  of  that  patroniz- 
ing air  and  pose  of  sanctity  frequently  to  be  ob- 
served among  Protestant  clergy,  his  attitude  of 
equality  toward  the  laity  peculiarly  reminiscent  of 
the  priests  of  Buddha. 

At  the  station  of  San  Francisco  half  the  passen- 
gers descended.  The  building  was  perched  on  a 
shelf  of  rock  that  fell  away  behind  it  into  a  stony 
gulf.  Surrounding  aU  the  station  precinct  ran  a 
weather-warped  and  blackened  fence,  ten  feet  high, 
along  the  top  of  which  screamed  and  jostled  fully 
two  score  women  and  girls,  offering  for  sale  every 
species  of  ware  from  cucumbers  to  turkeys.  Huck- 
sters and  beggars  swarm  down  —  or  rather  up  —  on 
San  Francisco  in  such  multitudes  that  the  railway 
company  was  forced  to  build  the  fence  for  the  pro- 
tection of  its  patrons.  But  the  women,  not  to  be  so 
easily  outdone,  carry  each  a  ladder  to  surmount  the 
difficulty.  As  the  train  swung  on  around  a  pinnacle 
of  rock,  we  caught  a  long  enduring  view  of  the  source 
of  the  uproar  —  the  populous  and  pauperous  city  of 
Loja,  lodged  in  a  trough-like  hillside  across  the  valley. 

Not  far  beyond  there  burst  suddenly  on  the  sight 
the  snow-cowled  Sierra  Nevada,  and  almost  at  the 
same  moment  the  train  halted  at  Puente  Pinos.  I 
Tecalled  the  village  as  the  spot  where  Columbus  saw 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR       67 

the  ebbing  tide  of  his  fortunes  checked  by  the  mes- 
sengers of  "  Ysabel  la  Cat61ica " ;  but  not  so  the 
priest. 

"  One  of  our  great  industries,  senor,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  several  smoke-belching  chimneys  near  at 
hand.  "  Puente  Pinos  produces  the  best  sugar  in 
Spain." 

"  The  cane  is  harvested  early  ?  "  I  observed,  gaz- 
ing away  across  the  flat  fields. 

*'  No,  no,"  laughed  the  priest,  "  betabel  (sugar 
beets)." 

Spanish  railways  are  as  prone  as  those  of  Italy  to 
repudiate  the  printed  promise  of  their  tickets.  We 
descended  toward  sunset  at  a  station  named  Granada 
only  to  find  that  the  geographical  Granada  was  still 
some  miles  distant.  The  priest  had  ofi^ered  to  direct 
me  to  an  inn  or  I  should  perhaps  have  escaped  en- 
tirely the  experience  of  riding  in  a  Spanish  street- 
car. It  crawled  for  an  hour  through  an  ocean  of 
dust,  anchoring  every  cable-length  to  take  aboard 
some  floundering  pedestrian.  Many  of  these  were 
priests;  and  as  they  gathered  one  by  one  on  either 
side  of  my  companion,  the  hope  I  had  entertained  of 
discovering  more  of  virtue  beneath  the  Spanish  sotana 
than  the  world  grants  oozed  unrestrainably  away. 
For  they  were,  almost  without  exception,  pot-bellied, 
self-satisfied,  cynical,  with  obscenity  and  the  evidences 
of  unnatural  vice  as  plainly  legible  on  their  counte- 
nances as  the  words  on  a  printed  page. 


88      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAI]^ 

We  reached  at  last  the  central  plaza,  where  my 
guide  pointed  out  a  large  modern  building  bearing 
across  the  front  of  its  third  story  the  inscription, 
"  Gran  Casa  de  Viajeros  de  la  Viuda  Robledo."  As 
I  alighted,  a  band  of  valets  de  place  swept  down  upon 
me.  I  gave  them  no  attention;  which  did  not,  of 
course,  lessen  the  impertinence  with  which  they  danced 
about  me.  Having  guessed  my  goal,  one  of  them 
dashed  before  me  up  the  stairs,  shouting  to  the  senora 
to  be  prepared  to  receive  the  guest  he  was  bringing. 

The  widow  Robledo  was  a  serene-visaged  woman  in 
the  early  fifties;  her  house  a  species  of  family  hotel 
never  patronized  by  foreigners.  We  came  quickly 
to  terms,  however;  I  was  assigned  a  room  overhang- 
ing the  culinary  regions,  for  which,  with  the  cus- 
tomary two  and  a  half  meals  a  day,  I  engaged  to  pay 
four  pesetas. 

At  the  mention  of  money,  the  tout,  who  during  all 
the  transaction  had  not  once  withdrawn  the  light  of 
his  simian  countenance,  demanded  a  peseta  for  having 
found  me  a  lodging.  I  reminded  him  of  the  real  facts 
of  the  case  and  invited  him  to  withdraw.  He  fol- 
lowed me  instead  into  my  new  quarters,  repeating  his 
demands  in  a  bullying  voice,  and  for  the  only  time 
in  my  Spanish  experience  I  was  compelled  to  resort 
to  physical  coercion.  Unfortunate  indeed  is  the 
tourist  who  must  daily  endure  and  misjudge  the  race 
from  these  pests,  so  exactly  the  antithesis  of  the  cour- 
teous, uncovetous  Spaniard  of  the  working  class. 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR        69 

I  had  not  yet  removed  the  outer  stain  of  travel 
when  a  vast  excitement  descended  upon  Granada, — 
it  began  to  rain.  On  every  hand  sounded  the  slam- 
ming of  doors,  the  creaking  of  unused  shutters ;  from 
below  came  up  the  jangling  of  pans  and  the  agitated 
voices  of  servants.  The  shower  lasted  nearly  ten 
minutes,  and  was  chronicled  at  length  next  day  in  all 
the  newspapers  of  Spain. 

From  the  edge  of  Granada  city  a  long  green  aisle 
between  exotic  elms  leads  easily  upward  to  the  do- 
main of  the  Alhambra.  In  its  deep-shaded  groves, 
so  near  yet  seeming  so  far  removed  from  the  stony 
face  of  thirsty  Spain,  reigns  a  dream-inviting  still- 
ness, a  quiet  enhanced  rather  than  broken  by  the  mur- 
mur of  captive  brooks.  For  this,  too,  remains  in 
memory  of  the  Moor,  that  the  waters  of  the  Genii 
and  Darro  are  still  brought  to  play  through  a  score 
of  little  stone  channels  beneath  the  trees.  There  I 
drifted  each  morning,  other  plans  notwithstanding,  to 
idle  away  the  day  on  the  grassy  headland  before  and 
below  which  spreads  the  vastness  of  the  province  of 
Granada,  or  distressing  the  guardians  of  the  ancient 
palace  with  my  untourist-like  loiterings.  But  for  her 
fame  the  traveler  would  surely  pass  the  Alhambra  by 
as  a  half-ruined  nest  of  bats  and  beggars.  Yet 
within  she  retains  much  of  her  voluptuous  splendor, 
despite  the  desolating  of  time  and  her  prostitution  to 
a  gaping-stock  of  tourists.  Like  so  much  of  the 
Mussulman's  building,  the  overshadowed  palace  is  ef- 


70      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

feminate,  seeming  to  speak  aloud  of  that  luxury  and 
wantonness  of  the  Moor  in  his  decadent  days  before 
the  iron-fisted  reyes  catolicos  came  to  thrust  him 
forth  from  his  last  European  kingdom.  In  this  she 
resembles  the  Taj  Mahal ;  yet  the  difference  is  great. 
For  the  effeminacy  of  the  Alhambra  is  the  unrobust- 
ness  of  woman,  while  the  Taj,  like  the  Oriental  man, 
is  effeminate  outwardly,  superficially,  beneath  all 
which  shows  sound  masculinity. 

In  the  city  below  is  only  enough  to  be  seen  to  give 
contrast  to  the  half -effaced  traces  of  magnificence  on 
the  hill.  He  who  comes  to  Granada  trusting  to  read 
in  her  the  last  word  of  the  degradation  of  the  once 
regal  and  all  powerful  must  continue  his  quest.  Of 
squalor  and  beggars  she  is  singularly  free  —  for 
Spain.  Something  of  both  remains  for  him  who  will 
wander  through  the  Albaicin,  peering  into  its  cave- 
dwellings,  wherein,  and  at  times  before  which  romp 
brown  gypsy  children  garbed  in  the  costume  in  which 
the  reputed  ancestor  of  us  all  set  forth  from  the  val- 
ley of  Eden,  or  occasional  jade-eyed  hoydens  of 
the  grotto  sunning  their  blacker  tresses  and  mumb- 
ling crones  plying  their  bacM  in  conspicuous  places. 
But  even  this  seems  rather  a  misery  of  parade  than 
a  reality,  a  theatrical  lying-in-wait  for  the  gullible 
Busne  from  foreign  shores. 

By  night  there  is  life  and  movement  in  Granada; 
a  strolling  to  and  fro  along  the  Alameda  to  the 
strains  of  a  military  band,  the  droning  of  the  water- 


LAST  FOOTHOLD  OF  THE  MOOR        Ti 

carriers  who  bring  down  lump  by  lump  the  ice-fields 
of  the  Sierra  Nevada,  and  a  dancing  away  of  the 
summer  night  to  the  clatter  of  the  castanet.  But  by 
day  —  once  only  during  my  stay  was  the  languid 
pulse  of  the  city  stirred  during  the  sunlit  hours.  A 
conscript  regiment  thundered  in  upon  us,  blocking 
all  traffic  and  filling  the  air  with  a  fog  of  dust  that 
dispelled  for  a  time  my  eagerness  to  seek  again  the 
open  road;  a  dust  that  thick-shrouded  beneath  its 
drab  the  very  color  of  caisson  and  uniform,  dry- 
blanketing  the  panting  horses,  and  streaking  the  faces 
of  men  and  officers  with  figures  like  unto  the  orna- 
mental writing  on  the  inner  walls  of  the  Alhambra. 


CHAPTER  rV 

THE  BANKS   OF    THE    GUADALQUIVIK. 

GRANADA  was  sleeping  a  fitful  Sunday  siesta 
when  I  repacked  my  knapsack  in  the  Casa  Rob- 
ledo.  In  the  streets  were  only  the  fruit-sellers  from 
the  surrounding  country,  still  faintly  chanting  over 
the  half -empty  baskets  on  the  backs  of  their  lolling 
asses.  I  paused  to  spend  two  "  perros  gordos  "  for  as 
many  pounds  of  cherries  —  for  he  who  has  once 
tasted  the  cherries  of  Granada  has  no  second  choice 
—  and  trudged  away  through  the  northern  suburb 
leaving  a  trail  of  pits  behind  uift. 

The  highway  surmounted  the  last  crest  and  swun^ 
down  to  the  level  of  the  plain.  Like  a  sea  of  heat 
mist  diked  by  the  encircling  mountains  stretched  the 
vega,  looking  across  which  one  saw  at  a  glance  no 
fewer  than  a  score  of  villages  half  concealed  by  an 
inundation  of  sunshine  so  physically  visible  that  one 
observed  with  astonishment  that  the  snow  lay  still 
unmelted  on  the  peak  of  Mulhacen  behind. 

Yet  for  all  the  heat  I  would  not  have  been  else- 
where nor  doing  else  than  striking  across  the  steaming 
vega  of  Granada.  In  such  situations,  I  confess,  I  like 
my  own  company  best.     With  the  finest  companion 

72 


BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALQUIVIR        73 

in  the  world  a  ten-mile  tramp  through  this  heat  and 
dust  would  have  been  a  labor  like  the  digging  of  a 
ditch.  Alone,  with  the  imagination  free  to  take  color 
from  the  landscape,  each  petty  inconvenience  seemed 
but  to  put  me  the  more  in  touch  with  the  real  Spain. 

Just  here  lies  the  advantage  of  traveling  in  this 
half -tramp  fashion.  The  "  personally  conducted " 
traveler,  too,  sees  the  Alhambra;  yet  how  slight  is 
that  compared  with  sharing  the  actual  life  of  the 
Spanish  people,  which  the  tourist  catches  if  at  aU  in 
vagrant,  posing  fragments?  To  move  through  a 
foreign  country  shut  up  in  a  moving  room,  carrying 
with  one  the  modem  luxuries  of  home,  is  not  travel; 
we  call  it  so  by  courtesy  and  for  lack  of  an  exact 
term.  "  II  f  aut  payer  de  sa  personne."  He  who 
will  gather  the  real  honey  of  travel  must  be  on  the 
scene,  a  "  super  "  at  least  on  the  stage  itself,  not  gos- 
siping with  his  fellows  in  a  box. 

With  all  its  aridity  the  vega  was  richly  productive. 
Olive-trees  hung  heavy,  on  either  hand  spread 
broad  fields  of  grain  in  which  peasants  were  toiling 
swelteringly  as  if  they  had  never  heard  of  the  com- 
mon sense  institution  of  Sunday.  When  sun  and 
tree-tops  met,  the  highway  began  to  wind,  leaving 
the  vega  behind  and  wandering  through  low  hills 
among  which  appeared  no  villages,  only  an  occasional 
rough-hewn  house  by  the  way.  Toward  twilight 
there  opened  a  more  verdant  valley,  and  a  stream, 
rising  somewhere  near  at  hand,  fell  in  with  the  car- 


74       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

retera  and  capered  prattling  along  with  it  into  the 
night. 

It  was  ten  perhaps  when  I  came  upon  a  lonely  lit- 
tle venta  by  the  wayside,  a  one-story  building  older 
than  the  modem  world,  serving  both  for  dwelling  and 
stable.  The  master  of  the  house  and  her  husband 
were  both  of  that  light-hearted  gentry  to  whom  life 
means  nothing  more  than  to  be  permitted  good  health 
and  a  place  to  eat  an  occasional  puchero.  With 
these  and  a  pair  of  mountain  arrieros  I  gossiped  until 
my  eyelids  grew  heavy,  and  turned  in  on  a  husk  mat- 
tress spread,  like  that  of  my  hosts,  on  the  kitchen 
floor. 

At  the  first  hint  of  dawn  I  was  off  and  had  set  the 
sun  a  handicap  of  three  miles  or  more  before  he  be- 
gan to  ruddy  the  jagged  chain  to  the  eastward.  The 
family  was  already  at  work,  the  arrieros  wending  on 
their  southward  way  singing  savage  fragments  of 
song ;  for  like  the  Arab  the  rural  andaluz  sleeps  full- 
dressed  and  springs  instantly  from  bed  to  labor. 

A  country  lightly  populated  continued.  At  high 
noon  I  reached  a  bath-inviting  irrigating  stream  that 
wound  through  a  grove  of  willows  offering  protection 
enough  from  the  sun  for  a  brief  siesta.  Soon  after, 
the  landscape  grew  savage  and  untenanted,  and  the 
carretera  more  and  more  constricted  until  it  passed, 
like  a  thread  through  the  eye  of  a  needle,  through 
a  short  tunnel,  built,  said  the  inscription,  by  Isabel 
II  —  an  example  of  exaggerated  Spanish   courtesy 


BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALQUIVIR        75 

evidently,  for  history  shouts  assurance  that  the  ac- 
tivities of  that  lady  were  rather  exclusively  confined 
to  less  enduring  works.  Once  released,  the  gorge  ex- 
panded to  a  rambling  valley  with  many  orchards  of 
apricots  and  plums,  still  walled,  however,  by  hills 
so  lofty  that  the  sun  deserted  it  early  and  gave  the 
unusual  sight  of  a  lingering  twilight. 

From  sunset  until  well  into  the  night  I  kept  sharp 
lookout  for  a  public  hostelry;  but  only  a  few  peas- 
ants' hovels  appeared,  and  with  fifty-six  kilometers 
in  my  legs  I  gave  up  the  search  and  made  my  bed 
of  a  bundle  of  straw  on  a  little  nose  of  meadow  above 
the  highway.  All  through  the  night  the  tramp  of 
asses  and  the  cursing  or  singing  of  their  drivers 
passing  below  drifted  into  my  dreams.  The  weather 
was  not  cold,  yet  in  the  most  silent  hour  a  chilliness 
half -arousing  crept  over  me,  and  it  was  with  a  sense 
of  relief  that  I  awoke  at  last  entirely  and  wandered 
on. 

By  daylight  the  hills  receded  somewhat,  flattening 
themselves  out  to  rolling  uplands;  the  stream  grew 
broad  and  noisy  in  its  strength.  Then  suddenly  at 
the  turning  of  an  abrupt  hiU  Jaen  rose  before  me,  a 
city  pitched  on  a  rocky  summit  like  the  capping  over 
a  haycock,  in  the  center  the  vast  cathedral ;  the  whole 
radiant  with  the  flush  of  morning  and  surrounded  by 
a  soil  as  red  as  if  the  blood  of  all  the  Moorish  wars 
were  gathered  here  and  mixed  with  the  clay.  The 
highway,  catching  sight  of  its  goal,  abandoned  un- 


76       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

ceremoniously  the  guidance  of  the  river  and  climbed 
with  great  strides  up  the  red  hillside  into  the  town. 

I  had  been  so  long  up  that  the  day  seemed  al- 
ready far  advanced.  But  Jaen  was  still  half  abed. 
I  drifted  into  what  was  outwardly  a  little  cantina, 
with  zinc  bar  and  shining  spigots,  but  domestically 
the  home  of  an  amiable  couple.  The  cantinero,  loll- 
ing in  the  customary  fat-man's  attitude  behind  the 
bar,  woke  with  a  start  from  the  first  of  that  day's 
siestas  when  I  requested  breakfast,  while  his  spouse 
ceased  her  sweeping  to  cry  out,  "  Como !  Tan  tem- 
prano!  Why,  it  is  scarcely  eight  o'clock!"  The 
lady,  however,  gave  evidence  of  an  un-Spanish  adapt- 
ability by  rising  to  the  occasion.  While  Senor  Cor- 
pulence was  still  shaking  his  head  condolingly,  she 
called  to  the  driver  of  a  passing  flock  of  goats,  one 
of  which,  under  her  watchful  eye,  yielded  up  a  foam- 
ing cupful  that  tided  me  over  until  I  sat  down  in 
the  family  dining-room  to  a  breakfast  such  as  is 
rarely  forthcoming  in  Spain  before  high  noon. 

The  cantina  was  no  more  a  lodging-house  than  a 
restaurant.  But  so  charming  a  couple  was  not  to  be 
lost  sight  of,  and  before  the  meal  was  ended  I  ex- 
pressed a  hope  of  making  my  home  with  them  during 
my  stay.  The  landlord  was  taking  breath  to  express 
his  regrets  when  the  matron,  after  a  moment  of  hesi- 
tation, admitted  that  even  that  might  be  possible, 
adding  however,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  that  she 


BANKS  OP  THE  GUADALQUIVIR        77 

could  not  be  certain  until  toward  night.  I  left  my 
bundle  and  sauntered  out  into  the  city. 

Jaen  is  a  town  of  the  Arab,  a  steep  town  with  those 
narrow,  sun-dodging  streets  that  to  the  utilitarian 
are  inexcusable  but  to  all  others  give  evidence  of  the 
wisdom  of  the  Moor.  Content,  perhaps,  with  its  past 
history,  it  is  to-day  a  slow,  serenely  peaceful  place 
riding  at  anchor  in  the  stream  of  time  and  singularly 
free  from  that  dread  disease  of  doing  something  al- 
waj'^s.  Unusually  full  it  seemed  of  ingenuous,  un- 
hurrying  old  men  engaged  only  in  watching  life 
glide  by  under  the  blue  sky.  I  spent  half  the  day 
chatting  with  these  in  the  thirsting,  dust-blown  park 
in  the  center  of  the  town.  Their  language  was  still 
a  dialect  of  Andalusia,  a  bit  more  Castilian  perhaps 
than  on  the  southern  coast,  at  any  rate  now  grown  as 
familiar  as  my  own. 

Each  conversation  was  punctuated  with  cigarette 
smoke.  Nothing  in  Spain  is  more  nearly  incessant 
than  the  rolling  and  burning  of  what  Borrow  dubbed 
in  the  days  before  the  French  word  had  won  a  place 
in  our  language  "  paper  cigars."  We  of  America 
are  inclined  to  look  upon  indulgence  in  this  form  of 
the  weed  as  a  failing  of  youth,  undignified  at  least 
in  old  men.  Not  so  the  Spaniard.  Whatever  his 
age  or  station  in  life  —  the  policeman  on  his  beat, 
the  engineer  at  his  throttle,  the  boy  at  his  father's 
heels,  the  priest  in  his  gown,  pufF  eternally  at  their 


78       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

cigarillo.  The  express-check  cashed  in  a  Spanish 
bank  is  swallowed  up  in  a  cloud  of  smoke  as  thicls 
as  the  fog  that  hovers  over  the  Grand  Banks;  the 
directors  who  should  attempt  to  forbid  smoking  in 
their  establishment  would  in  all  probability  be  in- 
vited to  hump  over  their  own  ledgers.  The  Spaniard 
is  strikingly  the  antithesis  of  the  American  in  this, 
that  his  *'  pleasures,"  his  addictions  come  first  and  his 
work  second.  Let  the  two  conflict  and  his  work  must 
be  postponed  or  left  undone.  In  contrast  to  his 
ceaseless  smoking  the  Spaniard  never  chews  tobacco ; 
his  language  has  no  word  for  that  habit. 

To  the  foreigner  who  smokes  Spain  is  no  Promised 
Land.  The  ready-made  cigarettes  are  an  abomina- 
tion, the  tobacco  a  stringy  shag  that  grows  endurable 
only  with  long  enduring.  Matches,  like  tobacco,  are 
a  fabrication  —  and  a  snare  —  of  the  government 
monopoly.  Luckily,  fire  was  long  before  matches 
were.  These  old  men  of  Jaen  one  and  all  carried 
flint  and  steel  and  in  lieu  of  tinder  a  coil  of  fibrous 
rope  fitted  with  a  nickled  ring  as  extinguisher.  Few 
peoples  equal  the  Spaniard  in  eagerness  and  ability 
to  **  beat  "  the  government. 

I  returned  at  evening  to  the  wineshop  to  be 
greeted  as  a  member  of  the  household. 

"  You  wondered,"  laughed  the  sefiora,  '*  why  I 
could  not  answer  you  this  morning.  It  is  because 
the  spare  room  is  rented  to  Don  Luis,  here,  who  works 
at  night  on  the  railroad.     Meet  Don  Luis,  who  h«w 


BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALQUIVIR        79 

just  risen  and  given  permission  that  you  sleep  in  his 
bed,  which  I  go  now  to  spread  with  clean  sheets." 

The  railway  man  was  one  of  nature's  satisfactions, 
a  short  solid  fellow  of  thirty-five,  overflowing  with 
contagious  cheerfulness.  The  libation  incidental  to 
our  introduction  being  drained,  the  landlord  led  the 
way,  chair  in  hand,  to  the  bit  of  level  flagging  before 
the  shop.  As  we  sat  "  al  fresco  "  drinking  into  our 
lungs  the  refreshing  air  of  evening,  we  were  joined 
by  a  well-dressed  man  whom  I  recalled  having  seen 
somewhere  during  the  day.  He  was  a  lawyer,  speak- 
ing a  pure  Castilian  with  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  local 
patois,  in  short,  one  whom  the  caste  rules  of  any 
other  land  of  Europe  would  have  forbidden  to  spend 
an  evening  in  company  with  a  tavern-keeper,  a  switch- 
man, and  a  wandering  unknown. 

"  How  does  it  happen,  senor,"  I  asked,  when  our 
acquaintance  had  advanced  somewhat,  "  that  I  saw 
you  in  the  cathedral  this  morning?  *' 

*'  The  domain  of  women,  priests  and  tourists  ?  ** 
he  laughed.  "  Because,  senor,  it  is  the  one  place  in 
town  where  I  can  get  cool." 

Truly  the  heat  of  a  summer  day  in  Jaen  calls  for 
some  such  drastic  measure,  for  it  grows  estival, 
gigantic,  weighing  down  alike  on  mind  and  body 
until  one  feels  imperative  necessity  of  escaping  from 
it  somehow,  of  running  away  from  it  somewhere ;  and 
there  is  no  surer  refuge  than  the  cavernous  cathe- 
draL 


80       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

This  as  well  as  the  fact  that  the  edifice  contains 
considerable  that  is  artistic  led  me  back  to  it  the  next 
morning.  But  this  time  it  was  in  the  turmoil  of  a 
personally  conducted  party.  When  I  had  taken  ref- 
uge in  a  shaded  seat  across  the  way,  the  flock  poured 
out  upon  the  broad  stone  steps  and,  falling  upon  a 
beggar,  checked  their  flight  long  enough  to  bestow 
upon  him  a  shower  of  pity  and  copper  coins. 

The  mendicant  was  blind  and  crippled,  outwardly 
a  personification  of  gratitude  and  humility,  and  at- 
tended by  a  gaunt-bellied  urchin  to  whom  might 
fittingly  have  been  applied  the  Spanish  appellation 
**  child  of  misery."  Long  after  the  hubbub  of  the 
passing  tourists  had  died  away  in  the  tortuous  city 
his  meekly  cadenced  voice  drifted  on  after  them: 

*'  Benditos  sean,  caballeros.  Que  Dios  se  lo  pa- 
gara  mil  veces  al  cielo ! " 

A  curiosity  to  know  whether  such  gentleness  were 
genuine  held  me  for  a  time  in  my  place  across  the 
way.  Silence  had  settled  down.  Only  a  shopkeeper 
wandering  by  to  a  day  of  drowsing  passed  now  and 
then;  within  the  great  cathedral  stillness  reigned. 
The  urchin  ran  after  each  passerby,  wailing  the 
familiar  formula,  only  to  be  as  often  ordered  ofi^.  At 
length  he  ascended  the  steps  stealthily  and,  creeping 
within  a  few  feet  of  his  master,  lay  down  and  was 
instantly  lost  in  sleep,  a  luxury  he  had  evidently  not 
tasted  for  a  fortnight. 

The  beggar  rocked  to  and  fro  on  his  worthless 


BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALQUIVIR        81 

stumps,  now  and  again  uttering  as  mournful  a  wail 
as  if  his  soul  had  lost  not  one  but  all  save  a  scattered 
half-dozen  of  its  strings.  Gradually  the  surround- 
ing silence  drew  his  attention.  He  thrust  a  hand  be- 
hind one  of  his  unhiunan  ears  and  listened  intently. 
Not  a  sound  stirred.  He  groped  with  his  left  hand 
along  the  stones,  then  with  the  right  and,  suddenly 
touching  the  sleeping  child,  a  tremor  of  rage  shivered 
through  his  misshapen  carcass.  Feeling  with  his 
finger  tips  until  he  had  located  the  boy's  face,  he 
raised  his  fist,  which  was  massive  as  that  of  a  horse- 
shoer,  high  above  his  head  and  brought  it  down  three 
times  in  quick  succession.  They  were  blows  to  have 
shattered  the  panel  of  a  door;  but  the  boy  uttered 
only  a  little  stifled  whine  and,  springing  to  his  feet, 
took  up  again  his  task,  now  and  then  wiping  away 
with  a  sleeve  the  blood  that  dripped  from  his  face 
down  along  his  tattered  knees. 

Before  the  sun  had  reached  its  full  strength,  I 
struck  off  to  explore  the  barren  bluff  that  overlooks 
Jaen  on  the  south  and  east.  Barely  had  I  gained  the 
first  crest,  however,  before  the  inexorable  leaden  heat 
was  again  upon  me,  and  the  rest  of  the  day  was  a 
perspiring  labor.  Only  the  reflection  that  real  travel 
and  sight-seeing  is  as  truly  work  as  any  life's  voca- 
tion lent  starch  to  my  wilted  spirits. 

At  intervals  of  two  or  three  hundred  yards  along 
the  precipitous  cliff  that  half  circles  the  city  stood 
the  shelter  of  an  octroi  guard,  built  of  anything  that 


82      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

might  deflect  a  ray  of  sunlight.  In  the  shade  of  each 
crouched  a  ragged,  ennui-eyed  man  staring  away  into 
the  limitless  expanse  of  sunshine.  Their  fellows  may 
be  found  forming  a  circle  around  every  city  in  the 
kingdom  of  Spain,  the  whole  body  numbering  many 
thousands.  The  impracticable,  the  quixotic  charac- 
ter of  official  Spain  stands  forth  nowhere  more  clearly 
than  in  this  custom  of  sentencing  an  army  of  her  sons 
to  camp  in  sloth  about  her  cities  on  the  bare  chance 
of  intercepting  ten-cent's  worth  of  smuggling,  when 
the  same  band  working  even  moderately  might  pro- 
duce tenfold  the  octroi  revenues  of  the  land. 

I  halted  with  one  of  the  tattered  fellows,  whose 
gladness  for  the  unusual  boon  of  companionship  was 
tempered  by  a  diffidence  that  was  almost  bashfulness, 
so  rarely  did  he  come  in  contact  with  his  fellow-man. 
For  a  long  hour  we  sat  together  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hut,  our  eyes  drifting  away  over  the  gray-roofed, 
closely-packed  city  below.  When  our  conversation 
touched  on  the  loneliness  of  his  situation  the  guard 
grew  vehement  in  bewailing  its  dreariness  and  desola- 
tion. But  when  I  hinted  that  the  octroi  might  per- 
haps be  abolished  to  advantage,  he  sprang  to  his  feet 
crying  almost  in  terror: 

"  Por  los  clavos  de  Cristo,  senor!  What  then 
would  become  of  nosotros?  I  have  no  other  trade 
whatever  than  to  be  guard  to  the  octroi." 

A  sorry  craft  indeed,  this  squatting  out  a  lifetime 
Under  a  grass  hut. 


BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALQ\jIVIR        83 

The  bluish  haze  of  a  summer  evening  was  gather- 
ing over  Jaen  when,  returning  through  a  winding 
street  to  my  lodging,  there  fell  on  my  ear  the  thrum 
of  a  solitary  guitar  and  the  rich  and  mellow  voice  of 
a  street  singer.  The  musician  was  a  blind  man  of 
fifty,  of  burly  build  and  a  countenance  brimming  with 
good  cheer  and  contentment,  accompanied  by  a 
woman  of  the  same  age.  As  I  joined  the  little  knot 
of  peasants  and  townsmen  gathered  about  him,  his 
song  ended  and  he  drew  out  a  packet  of  hand  bills. 

**  On  this  sheet,  senores,"  he  announced,  holding 
one  up,  "  are  all  the  songs  I  have  sung  for  you. 
And  they  are  all  yours  for  a  perro  gordo." 

I  was  among  the  first  to  buy,  glad  to  have  paid 
many  times  this  mere  copper  to  be  able  to  carry- 
home  even  one  of  those  languorous  ballads  so  filled 
with  the  serene  melancholy  of  the  Moor  and  the  fire 
of  Andalusia.  But  the  sheet  bore  nothing  but 
printed  words. 

"  Every  word  is  there,  senores,"  continued  the  min- 
strel, as  if  in  response  to  my  disappointment.  *'  As 
for  the  music,  anyone  can  remember  that  or  make  it 
up  for  himself." 

To  illustrate  how  simple  this  might  be  he  threw 
a  hand  carelessly  across  his  guitar  and  struck  up 
another  of  the  droning,  luring  melodies,  that  rose  and 
fell  and  drifted  away  through  the  passages  of  the 
dimming  city.  Easy,  indeed!  One  could  as  easily 
remember  or  make  up  for  one's  self  the  carol  of  the 


84       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

meadow  lark  in  spring  or  the  lullaby  of  the  nightin- 
gale in  the  darkened  tree-tops. 

That  I  might  catch  the  five-thirty  train  my  host 
awoke  me  next  morning  at  three-twenty.  I  turned 
over  for  a  nap  and  descending  in  the  dawn  by  the 
dust-blanketed  Alameda  to  the  station  two  miles  dis- 
tant, found  this  already  peopled  with  a  gathering  of 
all  the  types  of  southern  Spain.  The  train  was  due  in 
twenty  minutes,  wherefore  the  ticket-office,  of  course, 
was  already  closed.  After  some  search  I  discovered 
the  agent,  in  the  person  of  a  creature  compared  with 
whom  Caliban  would  have  been  a  beauty,  exchanging 
stories  with  a  company  of  fellow-bandits  on  the 
crowded  platform.  He  informed  me  in  no  pleasant 
manner  that  it  was  too  late  to  buy  a  ticket.  When 
I  protested  that  the  legal  closing  hour  was  but  five 
minutes  before  train  time,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
and  squinted  away  down  the  track  as  if  he  fancied 
the  train  was  already  in  sight.  I  decoyed  him  into 
the  station  at  last,  but  even  then  he  refused  to  sell 
a  ticket  beyond  Espeluy. 

We  reached  that  junction  soon  after  and  I  set  off 
westward  along  the  main  line.  The  landscape  was 
rich  and  rolling,  broad  stretches  of  golden  grain  al- 
ternating with  close-shaven  plains  seething  in  the 
sun.  Giant  cacti  again  bordered  the  way.  Once,  in 
the  forenoon,  I  came  upon  a  refreshing  forest,  but 
shadows  were  rare  along  the  route.  The  line  was 
even  more  traveled  than  that  below  Ronda.     Field- 


BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALQUIVIR        85 

laborers  passed  often,  while  sear-brown  peasant  women 
on  dwarf  donkeys  jogged  by  in  almost  continual  pro- 
cession on  their  way  to  or  from  market. 

Not  once  during  all  my  tramps  on  the  railways 
of  Spain  had  a  train  passed  of  which  the  engineer 
did  not  give  me  greeting.  Sometimes  it  was  merely 
the  short,  crisp  *'  Vaya !  "  more  often  the  complete  ex- 
pression "  Vaya  V.  con  Dios ! "  not  infrequently  ac- 
companied by  a  few  words  of  good  cheer.  Here  on 
the  main  line  I  had  occasion  to  test  still  further  the 
politeness  of  the  man  at  the  throttle.  I  had  rolled  a 
cigarette  only  to  find  that  I  had  burned  my  last 
match.  At  that  moment  the  Madrid-bound  express 
swung  out  of  a  shallow  cutting  in  the  hills  ahead.  I 
caught  the  eye  of  the  engineer  and  held  up  the  ciga- 
rette in  sign  of  distress.  He  saw  and  understood, 
and  with  a  kindly  smile  and  a  "  Vaya !  "  as  he  passed, 
dropped  two  matches  at  my  very  feet. 

It  was  not  far  beyond  that  I  caught  my  first 
glimpse  of  the  Guadalquivir.  Shades  of  the  Mis- 
sissippi !  The  conquering  Moor  had  the  audacity  to 
name  this  sluggish,  dull-brown  stream  the  "  Wad-al- 
Gkebir,"  the  "  Great  River!  "  Yet,  after  all,  things 
are  great  or  small  merely  by  comparison.  To  a  peo- 
ple accustomed  only  to  such  trickles  of  water  as  had 
thus  far  crossed  my  path  in  the  peninsula  no  doubt 
this  over-grown  brook,  bursting  suddenly  on  their 
desert  eyes,  had  seemed  worthy  the  appellation. 
But  many  streams  wandering  by  behind  the  barn  of 


86       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

an  American  farmer  and  furnishing  the  old  swim- 
ming-hole are  far  greater  than  the  Guadalquivir. 

I  crossed  it  toward  three  of  the  afternoon  by  an 
ancient  stone  bridge  of  many  arches  that  seemed 
fitted  to  its  work  as  a  giant  would  be  in  embroider- 
ing doilies.  Beyond  lay  Andujar,  a  hard-baked, 
crumbling  town  of  long  ago,  swirling  with  sand; 
famous  through  all  Spain  for  its  porous  clay  jars. 
In  every  street  sounded  the  soft  slap  of  the  potter ;  I 
peeped  into  a  score  of  cobble-paved  courts  where  the 
newly  baked  jarras  were  heaped  high  or  were  be- 
ing wound  with  straw  for  shipment. 

A  long  search  failed  to  disclose  a  casa  de  comidas 
in  all  the  town.  The  open  market  overflowed  with 
fruit,  however,  stocked  with  which  I  strolled  back 
across  the  river  to  await  the  midnight  train.  It  was 
packed  with  all  the  tribes  of  Spain,  in  every  sleeping 
attitude.  Not  until  we  had  passed  Cordoba  at  the 
break  of  day  did  I  find  space  to  sit  down  and  drowse 
for  an  hour  before  we  rumbled  into  Seville. 

I  had  exhibited  my  dust-swathed  person  in  at 
least  half  a  dozen  hotels  and  fled  at  announcement 
of  their  charges,  when  I  drifted  into  the  narrow  calle 
Rosario  and  entered  the  "  Fonda  de  las  Quatro 
Naciones."  There  ensued  a  scene  which  was  often 
to  be  repeated  during  the  summer.  The  landlord 
greeted  me  in  the  orange-scented  patio,  noted  my 
foreign  accent,  and  jumped  instantly  to  the  conclu- 
sion, as  Spaniards  will,  that  I  knew  no  Castilian,  in 


BANKS  OF  THE  GUADALQUIVIR        87 

spite  of  the  fact  that  I  was  even  then  addressing  him 
with  unhesitating  glibness.  Motioning  to  me  to  be 
seated,  he  raced  away  into  the  depths  of  the  fonda 
calling  for  "  Pasquale."  That  youth  soon  appeared, 
in  tuxedo  and  dazzling  expanse  of  shirt-front,  ex- 
tolling as  he  came  the  uncounted  virtues  of  his  house, 
in  a  flowing,  unblushing  imitation  of  French. 
Among  those  things  that  I  had  not  come  to  Spain 
to  hear  was  Spanish  mutilation  of  the  Gaelic  tongue. 
For  a  long  minute  I  gazed  at  the  speaker  with  every 
possible  evidence  of  astonishment.  Then  turning  to 
the  landlord  I  inquired  in  most  solemn  Castilian. 

*'  Esta  loco,  senor?  Is  he  insane  that  he  jabbers 
such  a  jargon?" 

**  Como,  senor ! "  gasped  Pasquale  in  his  own 
tongue.     "  You  are  not  then  a  Frenchman  ?  " 

"  Frenchman,  indeed ! "  I  retorted.  "  Yo,  seiior, 
soy  americano." 

"  Seiior ! "  cried  the  landlord,  bowing  profoundly, 
"  I  ask  your  pardon  on  bended  knee.  In  your  Cas- 
tilian was  that  which  led  me  to  believe  it  was  not 
your  native  tongue.  Now,  of  course,  I  note  that  it 
has  merely  the  little  pequenfsimos  peculiarities  that 
make  so  charming  the  pronunciation  of  our  people 
across  the  ocean." 

A  half-hour  later  I  was  installed  in  a  third-story 
room  looking  down  upon  the  quiet  little  caUe  Rosario, 
and  destined  to  be  my  home  for  a  fortnight  to  come. 
During  all  that  time  Pasquale  served  me  at  table 


88      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

without  once  inflicting  upon  me  a  non-Spanish  word. 
Nor  did  he  once  suspect  what  a  hoax  I  had  played 
on  the  "  Four  Nations  "  by  announcing  my  nation- 
ality without  prefixing  the  qualification  "  norte." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  TOREEO   AT  HOME 

EVEN  though  one  deny  the  right  of  its  inhabit- 
ants to  pity  the  man  who  must  Kve  and  die 
elsewhere,  even  he  who  finds  it  panting  and  simmer- 
ing in  the  heat  of  summer,  will  stiU  count  it  no  punish- 
ment to  spend  a  fortnight  in  Seville.  Tranquillity 
and  that  laggard  humor  so  befitting  vacation  days 
reign  within  its  precincts ;  yet  it  is  a  real  city,  never 
falling  quite  inert  even  at  the  hour  of  siesta,  which 
is  so  like  the  silence  of  the  grave  in  other  towns  of 
Andalusia.  In  the  slender  calle  Rosario  itself  the 
stillness  was  never  supreme,  but  tempered  always  by 
the  droning  of  a  passing  ajero  with  his  necklace  of 
garlic,  an  itinerant  baker,  or  a  blind  crone  hobbling 
by  with  the  fifth  or  the  tenth  of  a  lottery  ticket, 
crooning  in  mournful  voice,  *'  La  loteria !  El  nu- 
mero  trienta  seis  mil  quinientos  cincuenta  y  cinco-o-o. 
Who  will  win  a  fortune  in  the  loteria-a-a?  "  Then 
above  all  else  the  soft,  quarter-hourly  booming  of  the 
cathedral  bells  to  mark  the  passing  of  the  day,  like 
mile-stones  on  a  wandering  highway. 

Nor  with  all  her  languor  is  Seville  slovenly.     Out- 
wardly, like  all  that  carries  the  ear-mark  of  the  Moor, 

88 


00       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

she  is  bare.  In  the  first  brief  survey  one  may  fancy] 
one's  self  in  a  city  of  dismal  hovels.  But  this  is 
because  the  houses  are  turned  wrong-side  out;  a 
glimpse  into  one  of  the  marble-paved  patios,  fragrant 
with  orange-trees  and  cooled  by  fountains  throw- 
ing their  waters  high  in  the  dry  air,  forever  dis- 
pells the  illusion. 

My  first  full  day  in  Seville  fell  on  a  holiday  ded- 
icated to  San  Pedro  which,  chancing  also  to  be  my 
birthday,  it  was  easy  to  imagine  a  personal  festival. 
In  truth,  the  celebration  of  the  day  was  marked  by 
nothing  other  than  a  bit  more  indolence  than  usual. 
The  real  fiesta  began  at  night  in  the  Alameda  of  Her- 
cules. There,  among  a  hundred  booths,  the  chief 
object  of  interest  was  a  negro,  the  first  of  his  race,, 
one  might  fancy,  who  ever  invaded  the  city. 

By  day,  indeed,  there  is  little  else  to  do  in  Seville 
than  the  royal  occupation  of  doing  nothing,  a  stroll 
along  the  Sierpes  in  the  morning,  a  retreat  toward 
noisy,  glaring  noonday  to  the  cool  and  silent  cathe- 
dral or  those  other  churches  that  rival  it  as  museums 
of  art,  there  to  wander  undisturbed  among  master- 
pieces of  Spain's  top-most  century.  The  cathedral, 
by  the  way,  houses  the  most  recent  traveler  in  the 
calendar  of  saints.  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua,  not 
many  years  ago,  released  by  the  dexterous  knife  of 
an  impulsive  admirer,  struck  out  into  the  unknown 
and  journeyed  as  far  as  our  own  New  York.  But 
there  repenting  such  conduct  at  his  years  or  daring 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  91 

to  venture  no  further  when  his  companion  found  a 
sojourn  in  the  Tombs  imperative,  he  returned  to  his 
place,  and  resumed  it  so  exactly  that  only  the  sharp- 
est eye  can  detect  the  evidence  of  his  unseemly  ex- 
cursion. 

A  city  that  styles  her  most  important  street  that 
"  of  the  Serpents,"  even  though  it  harbors  no  more 
of  the  outcasts  of  the  pavement  than  many  another 
famous  thoroughfare,  may  be  expected  to  abound  in 
other  strange  names.  Nor  are  they  lacking.  How 
unworthy  his  lodging  must  the  worldly  Sevillian  feel 
who  wanders  uncertainly  homeward  in  the  small  hours 
to  his  abode  in  "  Jesus  del  Gran  Poder  " — *^  Powerful 
Jesus  street."  Or  with  what  face  can  the  merchant 
turn  off  after  a  day  of  fleecing  his  fellow-man  toward 
his  dwelling  in  *'  Amor  de  Dios "  ?  Top-heavy 
nomenclature  is  not  confined  to  the  streets.  There 
are  many  windows  in  which  one  may  read  the  an- 
nouncement of  a  **  Media  Noche  de  Jam6n."  No, 
it  is  not  a  new  law  by  the  cortes,  but  a  '*  Middle  of 
the  Night  of  Ham,"  or,  succinctly,  the  over-worked 
ham  sandwich.  The  uninstructed  may  be  led  at  sight 
of  a  building  proclaiming  itself  an  "  Academia  del 
Tiro  al  Blanco  "  into  the  belief  that  Seville  is  over- 
run with  institutions  of  higher  learning.  Not  so, 
distinctly  not  so.  The  **  Academy  of  the  Shot  at 
the  White  "  is  what  less  extravagant  and  imaginative 
peoples  dub  a  shooting  gallery. 

The  man  in  the  street  is  frequently  no  less  color- 


92       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

ful  in  his  language.  Yet  the  crisp,  trenchant  word 
common  to  that  personage  the  world  over  is  here, 
too,  in  full  force,  led  by  that  never  idle  explosive 
*'  hombre."  Dictionarically  speaking,  "  hombre  '* 
means  "  man,"  and  nothing  more  —  which  only  proves 
how  dismally  the  dictionary  has  failed  to  keep  up 
with  the  times.  For  child,  woman,  or  hen-pecked 
male  answers  to  the  expression  as  readily  as  to  his 
own  name.  A  sevillano  leading  a  pup  at  the  end  of 
a  string  may  be  frequently  observed  to  give  a  jerk 
at  the  leash  and  cry  over  his  shoulder,  "  Hombre ! 
iV^monos !  " — "  Come  along,  man ! " 

Anent  the  man  in  the  street,  it  may  be  asserted 
that  the  SeviUian  is  usually,  there.  Writers  of  Span- 
ish romances  have  for  centuries  sought  to  win  our 
sympathy  for  their  love-lorn  heroes  by  stationing 
them  in  the  public  way  to  whisper  their  pleadings 
through  the  cold  bars  of  a  reja.  The  picture  is 
true;  the  lover  of  flesh  and  blood  and  of  to-day  still 
stands  there.  But  so,  for  that  matter,  does  the 
butcher's  boy,  the  ol'-clothes  man,  and  even  less 
reputable  persons.  In  Spanish  newspapers  the  na- 
tional wealth  of  phrase  is  too  often  overshadowed  — 
like  the  news  columns  —  by  the  touching  assurance 
of  personal  announcements.  Rare  the  page  that  is 
not  half  taken  up  with  a  black-bordered  inset  con- 
veying the  information  that : 

"  Senor  and  Senora  Perez  have  the  honor  to  advise 
their  sorrowing  friends  and  business  associates  that 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  93 

little  Willie  Perez,  aged  six,  went  up  to  heaven  at 
7 :32  last  evening." 

There  is  nothing  like  being  exact  and  punctual  in 
these  little  matters. 

Toward  sunset,  after  the  siesta,  it  is  not  merely 
a  la  mode  but  good  sense  to  stroll  down  to  the  banks 
of  the  Guadalquivir  by  the  Golden  Tower  and  drift 
an  hour  or  two  back  and  forth  along  the  deep-shaded 
Alameda.  There  one  will  be  in  the  best  company  in 
Seville  —  and  the  worst ;  for  all  the  city  is  there, 
lolling  in  its  carriage  or  pattering  along  the  gravel 
in.  its  hempen  sandals. 

But  it  is  only  at  night  that  Seville  is  wholly  and 
genuinely  awake  and  approaches  somewhat  to  that 
fountain  of  joy  her  inhabitants  would  have  the  world 
believe  her.  Then  at  last  does  she  shake  oflp  entirely 
the  daytime  lassitude.  The  noises  of  the  day  are  all 
there,  the  street-hawkers  have  gained  a  hundredfold 
in  volume  of  lung,  in  number,  and  in  activity,  the 
cathedral  bells  seem  twice  as  loud.  Toward  nine  all 
the  city  and  his  wife  and  children  and  domestics  are 
gathered  or  gathering  in  the  great  focal  point,  the 
palm-fringed  Plaza  San  Fernando.  The  attractions 
are  several.  First  of  all  is  the  "  cinematagraf o,"  a 
moving-picture  machine  throwing  its  mirth  and 
puerility  on  a  sheet  suspended  in  the  center  of  the 
plaza.  Second,  a  military  band,  not  a  caterwaul- 
ing of  strange  noises  that  one  would  desire  suppressed 
by  fire  or  earthquake,  but  a  company  seriously  and 


94      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

professionally  engaged  in  producing  genuine  music, 
which  it  does  from  near  nine  till  after  midnight  as 
continuously  as  any  band  could  be  expected  to  until 
some  invention  makes  it  possible  to  blow  a  trombone 
and  smoke  a  cigarette  at  one  and  the  same  time. 
Third,  there  is  the  excitement  which  the  mingling 
together  in  crowds  brings  every  Latin  people,  and 
the  supreme  pleasure  of  strolling  to  and  fro  admiring 
one  another  and  themselves.  Fourth,  if  so  many  ex- 
cuses are  needed,  there  is  fresh  air  and  the  nearest 
approach  to  coolness  that  the  city  affords. 

Yet  with  all  Seville  gathered  the  thousand 
roped-off  chairs  around  the  curtain  are  rarely  half 
filled ;  for  to  sit  in  one  costs  a  "  fat  dog,"  as  the 
Spaniard  facetiously  dubs  his  Lacedemonian  two- 
cent  piece.  But  what  a  multitude  in  the  rest  of  the 
square!  Out  of  doors  all  Spain  mixes  freely  and 
heartily.  Hidalgos  with  the  right  to  conceal  their 
premature  baldness  from  Alfonso  himself  shudder 
not  in  the  least  at  being  jostled  by  beggars;  nay, 
even  exchange  with  them  at  times  a  few  words  of 
banter.  Silly  young  fops,  in  misfit  imitation  of  Pa- 
risian style,  a  near-Panama  set  coquettishly  over  one 
ear,  trip  by  arm  in  arm,  swinging  their  jaunty  canes. 
Workingmen  scorning  such  priggishness  stride 
slowly  by  in  trim  garments  set  off  by  bright  red 
fajas  in  which  is  stuck  a  great  navaja,  or  clasp-knife 
of  Albacete.  Rich-bosomed  majas  with  their  black 
masses  of  mane-like  hair,  in  crimson  skirts  or  yellow 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  95 

—  as  yellow  as  the  gown  of  Buddha  —  drift  lan- 
guorously by  with  restless  fan.  No  type  is  missing 
from  the  strolling  multitude.  Strolling,  too,  it  is, 
in  spite  of  the  congestion;  for  the  slow  tide-like 
movement  of  the  throng  not  only  gives  opportunity 
but  compels  any  lazy  foreigner  to  walk  whether  he 
will  or  not.  Everyone  is  busy  with  gallantry  and 
doing  nothing  —  doing  it  only  as  the  Spaniard  can 
who,  thanks  to  temperament,  climate,  and  training 
knows  that  peerless  art  and  follows  it  with  pleasure, 
not  with  the  air  of  one  who  prefers  or  pretends  to 
prefer  to  be  working. 

The  Sevillian  is  in  many  things,  above  all  in  his 
amusements,  a  full-grown  child.  Groups  of  portly 
business  men,  Seville's  very  captains  of  industry,  sit 
hour  by  hour  watching  the  unrolling  of  just  such 
films-  as  are  shown  in  our  "  nickelodeons,"  shouting 
with  glee  and  clapping  each  other  on  the  shoulder 
when  a  man  on  the  screen  falls  off  a  chair  or  a 
baker's  boy  deluges  a  passerby  with  flour.  No  less 
hilarious  are  the  priests,  shaking  their  fat  sides  with 
merriment  at  the  pictured  discomfiture  of  one  of 
their  guild  in  eager  pursuit  of  some  frail  beauty. 
As  interested  as  the  rest  are  the  policemen  —  and  as 
Kttle  engaged  in  the  fulfillment  of  their  duties,  what- 
ever those  may  be.  A  poor  species,  a  distressingly 
unattractive  breed  are  these  city  policemen  of  Spain, 
in  their  uniform'  closely  resembling  checkerboard 
pajamas,  lacking  even  the  Hibernian  dignity  of  size, 


90       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

stoop-shouldered  and  sunken-chested  with  lounging 
on  their  spines  and  the  inordinate  sucking  of  ciga- 
rette smoke  into  their  lungs.  Of  the  self-respect 
and  pride  of  office  characteristic  of  the  national 
guardia  civil  they  have  none  whatever.  I  recall  no 
evening  in  the  Plaza  San  Fernando  that  at  least  one 
pair  of  these  wind-broken,  emasculate  caricatures  of 
manhood  did  not  fall  to  quarreling,  dancing  in  rage 
and  shrieking  mutual  curses  in  their  smoke-ruined 
voices,  while  the  throng  dogged  them  on. 

Families  gather  early  in  the  plaza.  There  ensues 
a  moment  or  two  of  idle  thrumming  —  for  father  or 
brother  is  certain  to  bring  his  guitar  —  then  out 
bursts  the  sharp,  luring  fandango;  the  little  girls  in 
snowy  white  squirm  a  moment  on  their  seats,  spring 
suddenly  out  upon  the  gravel,  and  fall  to  dancing  to 
the  click  of  their  castanets  as  rhythmically  as  any 
professionals.  They  do  not  dance  to  "  show  off," 
they  are  indeed  rarely  conscious  of  attracting  atten- 
tion; they  dance  because  the  fire  in  them  compels, 
because  they  wish  to  —  and  what  the  Andalusiaa 
wishes  to  do  he  does  then  and  there,  gloriously  in- 
different to  whoever  may  be  looking  on.  Let  him 
who  can  imagine  an  American  bringing  his  guitar  to 
the  public  square  of  a  large  city  and,  surrounded  by 
thousands,  play  serenely  on  into  the  depths  of  the 
night. 

The  Andalusian  is  one  of  the  most  truly  musical 
beings  on  earth,  in  the  sense  that  his  music  expresses 


A  Sevillian  street 


**  A'ua  !  A'ua  fresca  !     Quien  quiere  beber: 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  97 

his  real  emotions.  Song  is  almost  his  natural  mode 
of  expression,  always  spontaneous,  with  none  of  the 
stiffness  of  learned  music.  He  has  no  prelude,  fol- 
lows no  conscious  rules,  displays  none  of  that  pre- 
liminary affectation  and  patent  evidence  of  technic 
that  so  frequently  makes  our  northern  music  stilted 
and  unenchanting.  He  plunges  headlong  into  his 
song,  anywhere,  at  any  time,  as  a  countryman  un- 
sullied by  pedantry  enters  into  conversation. 

Thus  wanes  the  night  in  the  Plaza  San  Fernando, 
marked  by  the  boom  of  the  Giralda's  bells,  the  bawl- 
ing of  vendors  of  lottery-tickets,  of  titbits,  of 
matches,  of  azucarillos,  of  naranjeros  crying  their 
oranges,  of  boys  carrying  miniature  roulette-wheels 
with  a  cone  of  sherbet  as  prize,  that  the  little  chil- 
dren may  be  taught  to  gamble  early  in  life;  and 
sharply  above  all  else  and  most  incessantly  the 
alpargata-shod  water-seller,  with  his  vessel  like  a 
powder-can  slung  across  one  shoulder,  his  glasses 
cHnking  musically,  crying,  crying  always  in  his 
voluptuous,  slovenly  dialect: 

"  A'ua !  A'ua  f  resca !  A'ua  f resca  como  la  nieve ! 
Quien  quiere  beber.'' " 

We  have  street  calls  in  the  United  States,  but  he 
whose  ear  is  daily  assaulted  therewith  would  have  dif- 
ficulty in  imagining  how  musical  these  may  be  when 
filled,  like  the  thrum  of  the  guitar,  the  street  ballad, 
the  "  carol  of  the  lusty  muleteer,"  and  the  wail  of  the 
railway  announcer,  with  the  inner  soul  of  Andalusia. 


98       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

There  is  to-day  very  little  left  of  the  national  cos- 
tume of  Spain.  One  may  except  the  stiff,  square-cut 
sombrero,  the  alpargata  of  workman  and  beggar,  the 
garb  of  the  arriero,  fitting  and  suiting  him  as  if  it 
had  grown  on  him,  the  blanket  which  the  peasant 
wears  thrown  over  one  shoulder,  not  because  he 
realizes  what  a  charm  this  adds  to  his  appearance, 
but  because  he  often  sleeps  out  of  doors  or  on  the 
stone  floor  of  public  stables.  Last,  and  least  to  be 
forgotten,  is  the  mantilla.  Except  for  it  the  women 
of  Spain  have  succumbed  to  the  ugly  creations  of 
Paris;  may  that  day  be  centuries  distant  when  the 
abomination  masquerading  under  the  name  of 
woman's  hat  makes  its  way  into  the  peninsula.  Yet 
there  is  never  among  Spanish  women  that  gaudy  af- 
fectation of  style  so  frequent  elsewhere.  Give  her 
the  merest  strip  of  gay  calico  and  the  espanola  will 
make  it  truly  ornamental;  with  a  red  flower  to  wear 
over  one  temple  and  a  mantilla  draped  across  the 
back  of  her  head  she  is  more  pleasingly  adorned  than 
the  best  that  Paris  can  ofl'er. 

There  is  something  unfailingly  coquettish  about 
the  mantilla.  It  sets  best,  perhaps,  with  a  touch  of 
Arab  blood;  and  in  the  Plaza  San  Fernando  this 
is  seldom  lacking.  Everywhere  are  morisco  faces 
framed  in  the  black  mantilla  and,  as  if  in  further  re- 
minder of  Mohammedan  days,  there  still  remains  the 
instinctive  habit  of  holding  a  comer  of  the  shawl 
across  the  chin.     Thus  accoutered  only  the  Castiliaa 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  99 

"ojear"  can  in  any  sense  express  the  power  given 
the  andaluza  by  her  Oriental  ancestry  to  do  or  say 
so  much  with  a  glance  of  her  black  eye.  With  the 
fan,  too,  she  is  an  adept.  The  Japanese  geisha  is 
in  comparison  a  bungler.  The  woman  of  Spain  has 
her  fan  in  such  fine  training  that  it  will  carry  on. 
extended  conversations  for  her  without  a  word  from 
her  lips,  as  Spanish  peasants  can  talk  from  two  hill- 
tops miles  apart  by  the  mere  motions  of  their  arms. 
But  who  of  all  the  misinformers  of  humanity  first 
set  afoot  the  rumor  that  the  seviUana  is  beautiful? 
"  Salada  "  she  is,  brimming  over  with  that  *'  salt  '* 
for  which  she  is  so  justly  renowned;  chic,  too,  at 
times,  with  her  tiny  feet  and  hands  and  graceful  car- 
riage ;  and  always  voluptuous.  But  one  might  wander 
long  in  the  music-livened  Plaza  San  Fernando  with- 
out espying  a  woman  to  whom  could  be  granted  the 
unqualified  adjective  beautiful.  On  the  other  hand 
it  is  rare  that  one  meets  a  sevillana,  unless  she  be 
deeply  marked  by  the  finger  of  time,  who  is  ugly; 
never,  if  my  search  was  thorough,  one  scrawny  or 
angular.  In  Spain  is  never  that  blending  and  mix- 
ture of  all  types  as  in  our  land  of  boundless  migra- 
tion; hence  one  may  generalize.  Salada,  graceful, 
full  of  languor,  above  all  wholly  free  from  pose,  is 
the  sevillana  in  her  mantilla.  Of  education  in  the 
bookish  sense  she  has  little,  of  the  striving  after 
"  culture "  to  the  divorce  of  common  sense  none 
whatever.     She   may  —  and   probably   does  —  know 


100      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

nothing  of  the  sciences,  or  the  wrinkle-browed  joys 
of  the  afternoon  club.  But  she  is  brimming  with 
health  and  sound  good  sense,  above  all  she  is  incon- 
testably  charming;  and  is  not  this  after  all  —  whis- 
per it  not  in  New  England  —  the  chief  duty  of  her 
sex? 

The  Andalusian  is  primarily  an  out-door  people; 
not  merely  in  the  plain  and  physical  sense,  but  in 
life  and  character.  He  lives  his  life  openly,  frankly, 
setting  his  face  in  no  mask  of  Puritanical  pretension 
when  he  sallies  forth  into  the  world,  being  himself 
always,  in  public  or  in  private.  All  in  all  among 
the  sincerest,  he  is  also  the  most  abstemious  and 
healthiest  of  peoples;  not  yet  spoiled  by  luxury. 
His  existence  is  reduced  to  simplicity;  more  exactly 
he  has  never  lost  touch  with  eternal  nature.  He 
takes  time  to  live  and  never  admits  the  philosophy 
that  he  must  work  before  resting,  but  hinges  his  con- 
duct on  the  creed  that  he  must  live  first,  and  do  what- 
ever of  work  there  is  time  left  to  do.  In  no  sense  is 
he  lazy;  rather  in  his  sound  sanity  he  has  a  real 
appreciation  of  the  value  of  life.  To-day  is  the 
great  day  to  him.  Live  now  is  his  motto,  not  put 
off  living  until  he  has  earned  enough  to  live,  only 
to  find  it  too  late  to  begin.  One  would  seek  through 
Seville  in  vain  for  that  strained,  devil-chased  air  so 
stamped  on  our  own  national  physiognomy.  What- 
ever his  vocation,  or  the  hour  of  the  day,  the  Span- 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  101 

iard  has  always  time  to  choose  the  shady  side  of 
the  street,  time  to  halt  and  talk  with  his  friends.  As 
I  watched  him  night  by  night  in  the  Plaza  San  Fer- 
nando—  and  this  is  largely  typical  of  all  Spain  — 
there  came  the  reflection  that  the  lands  of  continual 
striving,  the  lands  where  "  culture  "  demands  the  re- 
pression of  every  natural  emotion  and  enthusiasm, 
are  dreary  realms,  indeed,  compared  with  the  living 
Latin  South.  Here  is  not  merely  animation,  but  life, 
real  life  everywhere,  no  mere  feigned  living. 

On  my  second  Sunday  in  Seville  I  attended  my 
second  bullfight.  The  first  I  had  seen  from  the 
depths  of  the  sombra,  believing  the  assertion  that 
none  but  a  man  with  Arabic  blood  in  his  veins  could 
endure  the  unshaded  side  of  the  arena.  But  my  fear 
of  sun-stroke  had  melted  away;  moreover,  the  sun- 
side  gate  keeper  is  most  easily  satisfied.  I  bought  a 
ticket  at  a  comer  of  las  Sierpes  and  entered  the  plaza 
as  soon  as  the  doors  were  opened. 

Not  a  half-dozen  had  preceded  me  when  I  took  a 
place  on  the  stone  bank  directly  behind  the  red  tablets. 
On  my  heels  appeared  a  rabble  of  ragged,  joyful 
fellows,  who  quickly  demonstrated  that  I  had  not,  as 
I  supposed,  chosen  the  foremost  seat,  by  coming  to 
roost  along  the  top  of  the  barrier  in  front  of  me. 
One  shudders  to  reflect  what  would  befall  individuals 
in  an  American  baseball  crowd  who  should  conduct 
themselves  as  did  these  habitues  of  the  Sevillian  sol. 


102      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

But  to  the  mercurial  andaluz,  accustomed  always  and 
anywhere  to  give  his  idiosyncrasies  and  enthusiasms 
full  play,  the  wildest  antics  seem  quite  in  place. 

If,  as  many  reputed  authorities  will  have  us  believe, 
the  Spaniard's  love  for  "  toros  "  is  dying  out,  what 
must  it  have  been  before  the  dissolution  began?  At 
any  rate  it  has  not  yet  sunk  to  that  point  where  the 
vast  plaza  of  Seville  will  hold  all  who  would  come, 
even  to  these  novilladas  in  which  the  bulls  are  young 
and  the  fighters  not  yet  more  famous  than  a  member 
of  the  cortes.  From  a  dozen  entries  the  spectators 
poured  into  the  enclosure;  in  the  blazing  semicircle 
bronzed  peasants  and  workmen  with  wine-swollen 
hotaSy  across  the  shimmering  sand  richly  attired 
senoritas  in  the  white  mantilla  of  festival,  attended 
by  middle-aged  dueiias  and,  at  respectful  distance, 
by  caballeros  of  effeminate  deportment.  The  es- 
panola  is  as  ardent  a  lover  of  bulls  as  the  men.  One 
must  not,  however,  jump  to  the  conclusion  that  she  is 
cruel  and  inhuman.  On  the  contrary  she  is  in  many 
things  exceedingly  tender-hearted.  Habit  and  the 
accustomed  way  of  thinking  make  vast  differences, 
and  the  fact  that  Spain  was  for  seven  hundred  years 
in  continual  warfare  may  account  for  a  certain  cal- 
lousness to  physical  suffering. 

The  Spanish  plaza  de  toros  is  the  nearest  modem 
prototype  of  the  Roman  Coliseum;  when  it  is  filled 
one  may  easily  form  a  mental  picture  of  the  scene 
at  a  gladiatorial  combat.     By  four-thirty  the  voice 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  lOS 

of  the  circular  multitude  was  like  the  rumble  of  some 
distant  Niagara.  Howling  vendors  of  thirst-quench- 
ing fruits  climbed  over  our  blistering  knees ;  between 
the  barriers  circulated  hawkers  of  everything  that 
may  be  sold  to  the  festive-humored.  Spain  may  be 
tardy  in  all  else,  but  her  bullfights  begin  sharply  on 
time.  At  the  first  stroke  of  five  from  the  Giralda 
a  bugle  sounded,  the  barrier  gates  swung  open,  and 
the  game  was  on. 

It  would  be  not  merely  presumptuous,  which  is 
criminal,  but  trite,  which  is  worse,  to  attempt  at  this 
late  day  to  picture  a  scene  that  has  been  described  a 
hundred  times  in  every  civilized  tongue  and  in  all 
the  gamut  of  styles  from  Byronic  verse  to  com- 
mercial-traveler's prose.  But  whereas  every  bullfight 
is  the  same  in  its  general  features,  no  two  were  ever 
alike  in  the  unexpected  incidents  that  make  the 
sport  of  perennial  interest  to  the  aficionados.  An 
"  aficionado,"  be  it  noted  in  passing,  is  a  **  fan,"  a 
being  quite  like  our  own  "  rooter  "  except  that,  his 
infirmity  being  all  but  universal,  he  is  not  looked  down 
upon  with  such  pity  by  his  fellow-countrymen. 

Seville  is  the  acknowledged  headquarters  of  the 
taurine  art.  In  our  modem  days  of  migratory  mix- 
ture of  races  and  carelessness  of  social  lines,  toreros 
have  arisen  from  all  classes  and  in  all  provinces  — 
nay,  even  in  foreign  lands.  One  of  Spain's  famous 
'matadores  is  a  Parisian,  and  one  even  more  renowned 
bears  the  nickname  of  the  "  Mexican  Millionaire." 


104       FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

But  the  majority  of  bullfighters  are  still  sons  of 
peasants  and  small  landholders  of  Andalusia  in  gen- 
eral and  the  vicinity  of  Seville  in  particular.  The 
torero  touring  "  the  provinces  "  is  as  fond  of  an- 
nouncing himself  a  sevillano  as  are  our  strolling 
players  of  claiming  '*  New  Yawk  "  as  home.  Now- 
adays, too,  the  bulls  are  bred  in  all  parts  of  Spain 
and  by  various  classes  of  persons.  But  the  ga/na- 
derias  of  Andalusia  still  supply  most  of  the  animals 
that  die  in  the  plazas  of  Spain,  and  command  the 
highest  prices.  Among  the  principal  raisers  is  the 
Duke  of  Veragua,  who  boasts  himself  —  and  can, 
it  is  said,  make  good  the  boast  —  a  lineal  descendant 
of  that  Christopher  Columbus  whose  wandering  ashes 
now  repose  in  the  cathedral  of  Seville.  The  duke, 
however,  takes  second  place  to  one  Eduardo  Mitira, 
whose  bulls  are  so  noted  for  their  fury  that  a  move- 
ment has  for  some  time  been  on  foot  to  demand 
double  fees  for  facing  animals  from  his  pastures. 

The  bulls  of  both  my  Sundays  in  Seville  were 
'*  miuras,"  and  fully  sustained  the  fame  of  their 
ganadero.  Each  corrida  began  with  the  usual  ca- 
parisoned parade,  the  throwing  of  the  key,  the  flee- 
ing of  the  over-cautious  alguaciles  amid  the  jeering 
of  the  multitude.  Is  there  another  case  in  history 
of  a  national  sport  conducted  by  the  vested  authori- 
ties of  government?  Perhaps  so,  in  Nero's  little 
matinees  in  the  toasting  of  Christians.  But  here  the 
rules  of  the  game  are  altered  and  to  some  extent 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  105 

framed  by  those  authorities.  Imagine  the  city 
fathers  of,  let  us  say  Boston,  debating  with  fiery 
zeal  whether  a  batter  should  be  allowed  to  run  on 
the  third  strike !  Then,  too,  the  mayor  or  his  repre- 
sentative is  the  umpire,  safely  so,  however,  for  he 
is  securely  locked  in  his  box  high  above  the  rabble 
and  there  is  never  a  losing  team  to  lie  in  wait  for  him 
beyond  the  club-house. 

It  is  the  all  but  universal  custom,  I  note  in  skim- 
ming through  the  impressions  of  a  half-hundred 
travelers  in  Spain,  to  decry  bullfighting  in  the 
strongest  terms.  Nay,  almost  without  exception,  the 
chroniclers,  who  appear  in  most  cases  to  be  full- 
grown,  able-bodied  men,  relate  how  a  sickness  nigh 
unto  death  came  upon  them  at  about  the  time  the 
first  bull  was  getting  warmed  up  to  his  business  which 
forced  them  to  flee  the  scene  forever.  One  must,  of 
course,  believe  they  are  not  posing  before  the  gentle 
reader,  but  it  comes  at  times  with  difficulty.  To  be 
sure,  the  game  has  little  in  common  with  croquet  or 
dominoes;  there  are  stages  of  it,  particularly  the 
disemboweling  of  helpless  hacks,  that  give  the  new- 
comer more  than  one  unpleasant  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  had  I  a  dictator's 
power  I  should  abolish  bullfighting  to-morrow,  or 
next  Monday  at  least;  but  so,  for  that  matter,  I 
should  auto  races  and  country  billboards,  Salome 
dancers  and  politicians,  train-boys  and  ticket  specu- 
lators.    Unfortunately  — 


10«      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

At  any  rate,  I  came  out  to  this  second  corrida  in 
Seville  and  left  it  with  the  hope  of  seeing  several 
more.  Certainly  there  is  no  other  "  sport "  that  can 
more  quickly  and  fully  efface  from  the  mind  of  the 
spectator  his  personal  cares  and  problems ;  and  is 
not  this,  after  all,  the  chief,  if  not  the  only  raison 
d'etre  of  professional  sport?  There  is  an  intensity 
in  the  moment  of  a  matador  standing  with  steeled  eye 
and  bared  sword  before  a  bull  panting  in  tired  anger, 
head  lowered,  a  hush  of  expectancy  in  the  vast  audi- 
ence, the  chulos  poised  on  tiptoe  at  a  little  distance, 
an  equine  corpse  or  two  tumbled  on  the  sand  to  give 
the  scene  reality,  compared  with  which  the  third  man, 
third  strike  in  the  ninth  inning  of  a  0—0  contest  is 
as  exciting  as  a  game  of  marbles.  It  is  his  hunger 
for  such  moments  of  frenetic  attention  that  makes 
the  Spaniard  a  lover  of  the  corrida,  not  the  sight 
of  blood  and  the  injuries  to  beast  and  man,  which, 
in  his  intoxication  at  the  game  itself,  he  entirely  loses 
sight  of. 

The  newcomer  will  long  remember  his  first  bull  — 
certainly  if,  as  in  my  own  case,  the  first  bandarillero 
slips  at  the  moment  of  thrusting  his  barbed  darts 
and  is  booted  like  a  soccer  football  half  across  the 
ring  by  the  snorting  animal.  Still  less  shall  I  forget 
the  chill  that  shot  through  me  when,  with  the 
fifth  bull  at  the  height  of  his  fury,  a  gaunt  and 
awkward  boy  of  fifteen  sprang  suddenly  over  the 
barriers  and  shook  his  ragged  blouse  a  dozen  times 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  107 

in  the  animal's  face.  As  many  times  he  escaped  a 
goring  by  the  closest  margin.  The  toreros  did  not 
for  a  moment  lose  their  heads.  Calmly  and  dexter- 
ously they  manoeuvered  until  one  of  them  drew  the 
bull  off,  when  another  caught  the  intruder  by  the 
arm  and  marched  him  across  the  ring  to  the  shade 
of  the  mayor's  box.  There  the  youth,  who  had  taken 
this  means  of  gaining  an  audience,  lifted  up  a  mourn- 
ful voice  and  asked  for  food,  asserting  that  he  was 
starving  —  a  statement  that  seemed  by  no  means  im- 
probable. The  response  was  thumbs  down.  But  he 
gained  his  point,  in  a  way,  for  he  was  given  a  fort- 
night in  prison.  Incidents  of  the  sort  had  grown  so 
frequent  of  late  in  the  plaza  of  Seville  as  to  make 
necessary  a  new  law,  promulgated  in  large  letters  on 
that  day's  programme.  Printed  words,  in  all  proba- 
bility, meant  nothing  to  this  neglected  son  of  Seville. 
Such  occurrences  are  not  always  due  to  the  same 
motive.  The  impulsive  andaluz  is  frequently  not 
satisfied  with  being  a  mere  spectator  at  the  national 
game.  A  score  of  times  the  tattered  aficionados 
about  me  pounced  upon  one  of  their  fellows  and 
dragged  him  down  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of 
bounding  into  the  ring.  Indeed,  as  at  any  spectacle 
the  world  over,  the  audience  was  as  well  worth  atten- 
tion as  the  performance  itself.  On  the  blistering 
stone  terraces  of  an  Andalusian  sol  animation  and 
comedy  are  never  lacking.  In  his  excitement  at  a 
clever  thrust  the  Sevillian  often  sees  fit  to  fall  — 


108      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

quite  literally  —  on  the  neck  of  a  total  stranger ; 
friends  and  foes  alike  embrace  each  other  and  dance 
about  on  the  feet,  shoulders,  or  heads  of  their  un- 
complaining neighbors.  There  is  a  striking  simi- 
larity between  the  bantering  of  a  famous  torero  by 
the  aficionados  and  the  *' joshing"  of  a  favorite 
pitcher  in  an  American  ball  park,  but  the  good  day 
has  yet  to  come  when  the  recorder  of  a  home-run 
will  be  showered  in  his  circuit  of  the  bleachers  with 
hats  and  wine-skins,  handfuls  of  copper  coins,  and 
tropical  deluges  of  cigars.  Nor  does  the  most  in- 
excusable fumble  call  forth  such  a  storm  of  derision 
as  descends  upon  a  cowardly  bull.  The  jibes  have 
in  them  often  more  of  wit  than  vulgarity,  as  when  an 
aficionado  rises  in  his  place  and  solemnly  offers  the 
animal  his  seat  in  the  shade.  The  height  of  all  in- 
sults is  to  call  him  a  cow.  Through  it  all,  the 
leather  wine-bottles  pass  constantly  from  hand  to 
hand.  A  dozen  of  these  I  had  thrust  upon  me  during 
the  fight,  and  tasted  good  wine  each  time.  The  pro- 
ceeding is  so  antiseptic  as  to  warm  the  heart  of  the 
most  raving  germ-theorist,  for  the  bota  is  fitted  with 
a  tiny  spout  out  of  which  the  drinker,  holding  the 
receptacle  high  above  his  head,  lets  the  wine  trickle 
down  his  throat.  The  skins  so  swollen  when  the 
corrida  begins  are  limp  and  flaccid  when  it  ends. 

It  seems  the  custom  of  travelers  to  charge  that  the 
apparent  bravery  of  the  bullfighter  is  mere  pseudo- 
courage.     Of  all  the  detractors,   however,   not   one 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  100 

records  having  strolled  even  once  across  the  arena 
while  the  fight  was  on.  In  truth,  the  torero's  calling 
is  distinctly  dangerous.  The  meanest  bull  that  enters 
a  Spanish  ring,  one  for  whom  the  spectators  would 
demand  "  banderillas  de  fuego  " —  explosives, — 
is  a  more  fearful  brute  than  the  king  of  a  Texas 
ranch.  Their  horns  are  long,  spreading  and  needle- 
pointed  ;  the  empresa  that  dared  turn  into  the  ring  a 
bull  with  the  merest  tip  of  a  horn  blunted  or  broken 
would  be  jeered  into  oblivion.  Not  a  year  passes 
that  scores  of  toreros  are  not  sent  to  the  hospital. 

The  Spanish  espada  is  almost  invariably  "  game  " 
to  the  last.  The  sixth  bull  of  this  Sunday's  tourna- 
ment was,  as  often  happens,  the  most  ferocious.  He 
killed  six  horses,  wounded  two  picadores,  tossed  a 
chulo  as  high  as  a  one-story  house  and,  at  the  first 
pass  of  Vasquez,  the  matador,  knocked  him  down  and 
gored  him  in  the  neck.  A  coward,  one  fancies,  would 
have  lost  no  time  in  withdrawing.  Vasquez,  on  the 
contrary,  crawled  to  his  feet  and  swung  half  round 
the  circle  that  all  might  see  he  was  unafraid,  though 
blood  was  streaming  down  his  bespangled  breast. 
The  alguaciles  between  the  barriers  commanded  him 
to  retire,  but  it  was  to  be  noted  that  not  one  of  them 
showed  the  least  hint  of  entering  the  ring  to'  enforce 
the  order.  The  diestro  advanced  upon  the  defiant 
brute,  unfurled  his  red  muleta,  poised  his  sword  — 
and  swooned  flat  on  the  sand.  The  bull  walked 
slowly  to  him,  sniffed  at  his  motionless  form,  and  with 


110      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

an  expression  almost  human  of  disdain,  turned  and 
trotted  away. 

"  Palmas  al  toro !  '*  bawled  a  boisterous  fellow  at 
my  elbow,  and  the  vast  circle  burst  out  in  a  thunder 
of  hand-clapping  and  cries  of  "  Bravo,  toro ! "  while 
the  wounded  espada  still  lay  senseless  in  the  center  of 
the  ring. 

He  was  carried  off  by  his  cuadrilla^  and  the 
sohresaliente,  which  is  to  say  the  "jumper-over,"  or 
substitute,  marched  as  boldly  into  the  ring  as  if  acci- 
dents were  unknown.  Once  begun  a  corrida  knows 
no  intermission,  even  though  a  man  is  killed.  The 
newcomer  took  steady  aim  and  drove  the  three-foot 
sword  to  the  very  hilt  between  the  heaving  shoulders ; 
then  nonchalantly  turned  his  back  and  strolled  away. 
The  bull  did  not  fall,  but  wabbled  off  into  the  shade 
to  lean  up  against  the  tablas  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
grown  disillusioned  and  disgusted  with  life,  and  the 
spectators,  no  longer  to  be  restrained,  swarmed  head- 
long into  the  arena.  I  pushed  toward  the  animal 
with  the  rest  and  just  as  I  paused  a  few  feet  from 
him  he  dropped  suddenly  dead,  his  blood-smeared 
horns  rattling  down  along  the  barrier. 

On  rare  occasions  the  matador,  disobeying  the  un- 
written law  that  the  animal  must  be  despatched  by 
a  thrust  down  through  the  body,  places  the  point  of 
his  sword  just  behind  the  horns  and  with  the  slight- 
est of  thrusts  kills  the  bull  so  suddenly  that  his  fall 
sounds  like  the  thump  of  a  barrel  dropped  from  a 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  111 

height.  Then  does  the  spectator,  the  unseasoned  at 
least,  experience  an  indefinable  depression  as  if  this 
striking  of  a  great  brute  dead  by  a  mere  prick  in  the 
back  of  the  neck  were  a  warning  of  how  frail  after 
all  is  the  hold  of  the  most  robust  on  life. 

As  we  poured  out  of  the  plaza,  I  halted  in 
the  long  curving  chamber  beneath  the  tribunes. 
Twenty-two  horses,  gaunt,  mutilated  things,  lay 
tumbled  pellmell  together  in  a  vast  heap.  Brawny 
men  in  sleeveless  shirts  were  pawing  them  over. 
Whenever  they  brought  to  light  a  mane  or  tail  they 
slashed  off  the  hair  and  stuffed  it  into  sacks;  when 
they  dragged  forth  a  hoof  the  shoe  was  quickly  added 
to  the  heap  of  old  iron  in  a  comer.  The  bulls  were 
treated  with  far  more  deference.  Each  lay  in  his 
own  space,  and  the  group  gathered  about  him  wore 
the  respectful  mien  of  soldiers  viewing  the  last  re- 
mains of  some  formidable  fallen  enemy.  On  my 
heels  arrived  the  jingling  mules  with  the  last  vietira. 
Two  butchers  skinned,  quartered,  and  loaded  this  into 
a  wagon  from  the  central  markets  in  exactly  eleven 
minutes,  the  vehicle  rattled  away,  and  the  week's 
c6rrida  was  over. 

The  Spanish  torero  is  all  but  idolized  by  the  rank 
and  file,  being  in  this  respect  vastly  above  our  pro- 
fessional ball  players.  There  is  little  society  except 
the  purely  bluestocking  to  which  he  has  not  the 
entree ;  wherever  and  whenever  he  appears  he  is  sure 
to  be  surrounded  or  followed  by  admiring  crowds. 


112      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

The  famous,  the  Bombita  family,  for  example,  which 
has  given  four  renowned  matadores  to  the  ring  — 
and  one  to  each  of  my  Sevillian  corridas  —  Macha- 
quito  of  Cordoba,  and  a  half-dozen  others  of  highest 
rank  are  distinctly  more  popular  and  honored  than 
the  king.  Nor  is  this  popularity,  however  clouded 
by  a  bad  thrust,  transient  or  fleeting.  Pepete,  who 
departed  this  life  with  exceeding  suddenness  back  in 
the  sixties  because  a  bull  bounded  after  him  over  the 
tablas  and  nailed  him  to  the  inner  barrier,  is  to  this 
day  almost  a  national  hero. 

Of  course  every  red-blooded  Spanish  boy  dreams 
of  becoming  a  bullfighter  and  would  not  think  of 
being  unfamiliar  with  the  features,  history,  peculiari- 
ties, and  batting  av  —  I  mean  number  of  cogidas  or 
wounds  of  the  principal  fighters.  Rare  the  boy  who 
does  not  carry  about  his  person  a  pack  of  portraits 
of  matadores  such  as  are  given  away  with  cigarettes. 
On  the  playground  no  other  game  at  all  rivals 
"  torero "  in  popularity.  There  is  something  dis- 
tinctly redolent  of  the  baseball  diamond  in  the  dia- 
logues one  is  sure  to  hear  several  times  on  the  way 
home  after  a  corrida.  A  boy  whom  fate  or  the 
despotism  of  the  family  woodpile  has  deprived  of 
the  joys  of  the  afternoon,  greets  his  inhuman  father 
outside  the  gates  with  a  shout  of,  "  Hola !  Papa ! 
Qu6  tal  los  toros  ?  —  How  goes  it  with  the  bulls  — 
what  is  the  score?  "  To  which  father,  anxious  now 
to  regain  his  popularity,  answers  jovially,  "  Bueno, 


THE  TORERO  AT  HOME  US 

chiquillo!  Tres  cogidas  y  dos  al  hospital. —  Fine, 
son!     Three  wounded  and  two  in  the  hospitah" 

Having  thus  trod  the  very  boards  of  the  last  act  of 
"  Carmen "  and  passed  a  splendid  setting  for  the 
third  in  my  tramp  through  the  Sierra  de  Ronda,  I 
decided  to  celebrate  the  otherwise  unglorious  Fourth 
by  visiting  the  scene  of  the  third.  The  great 
government  Fabrica  de  Tabacos  of  Seville  is  one  of 
the  most  massive  buildings  in  Spain,  and  furnishes 
well-nigh  half  the  cigarettes  and  cigars  smoked  in 
Andalusia.  I  passed  through  the  outer  offices  and 
crossed  the  vast  patio  without  interference.  When  I 
attempted  to  enter  the  factory  itself,  however,  an 
official  barred  the  way.  I  asked  why  permission  was 
denied  and  with  a  wink  he  answered: 

"  Sh !  Hace  calor.  It  is  hot,  and  las  cigarreras 
are  not  dressed  to  receive  visitors.  Come  in  the 
autumn  and  I  shall  make  it  a  pleasure  to  show  you 
through  the  fabrica." 

"  But  surely,"  I  protested,  "  there  are  men  among 
the  employees  who  have  admittance  to  the  workrooms 
even  in  summer?  " 

**  Claro,  hombre ! "  he  replied,  with  another  wink. 
"  But  that  is  one  of  the  privileges  of  our  trade." 

I  strolled  out  around  the  building.  Back  of  it, 
sure  enough,  was  a  cavalry  barracks,  and  any  one  of 
a  score  of  young  troopers  sitting  astride  chairs  in 
the  shade  of  the  building  might  have  passed  for  Don 
Jose.     Some  of  them  were  singing,  too,    in   good 


114      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

clear  voices;  though  rather  a  sort  of  dreamy 
malaguefio  than  the  vivacious  music  of  Bizet.  But, 
alas !  With  Don  Joses  and  to  spare,  when  the  fac- 
tory gates  opened  and  the  thousands  of  cigarreras 
so  famed  in  song  and  impropriety  poured  forth,  not 
one  was  there  who  could  by  any  stretch  of  the  imag- 
ination be  cast  for  Carmencita.  Sevillanas  there 
were  of  every  age,  from  three-foot  childhood  up- 
ward; disheveled  gypsy  girls  from  Triana  across  the 
river;  fat,  dumpy  majas;  hobbhng  old  witches;  slat- 
terns with  an  infant  tucked  under  one  arm ;  crippled 
martyrs  of  modem  invention ;  hollow-chested  victims 
of  tobacco  fumes ;  painted  sinvergiienzas;  above  all, 
hundreds  of  hale,  honest  women  who  looked  as  if  they 
worked  to  help  support  their  famihes  and  lived  life 
seriously  and  not  wantonly.  But  not  a  face  or  even 
a  form  that  could  have  seduced  any  young  recruit  to 
betray  his  trust  and  ruin  his  career.  Fiction,  fre- 
quently, is  more  picturesque  than  fact  —  and  far  less 
pleasing  in  its  morality. 


CHAPTER  VI 

TB.AMPING    NORTHWARD 

TO  the  man  who  will  travel  cheaply,  interlard- 
ing his  walking  trips  with  such  journeys  by 
train  as  may  be  necessary  to  cover  the  peninsula  in 
one  summer,  Spain  offers  the  advantages  of  the 
**  billete  kilometrico."  The  kilometer  ticket  is  sold 
in  all  classes  and  for  almost  any  distance,  and  i» 
valid  on  all  but  a  few  branch  lines.  One  applies 
at  a  ticket  agency,  leaves  a  small  photograph  of 
one's  self,  and  comes  back  a  couple  of  days  later 
to  receive  a  sort  of  16mo  mileage-book  containing 
legal  information  sufficient  to  furnish  reading  mat- 
ter for  spare  moments  for  a  week  to  come  and 
adorned  with  the  interesting  likeness  already  noted. 
I  made  such  application  during  my  second  week 
in  Seville,  and  received  for  my  pains  a  book  good 
for  two  thousand  kilometers  (1280  miles)  of  third- 
class  travel  during  the  ensuing  three  months.  The 
cost  thereof  —  besides  the  infelicity  of  sitting  to  a 
photographer  in  a  sadly  mosquito-bitten  condition  — 
covering  transportation,  government  tax  on  the  same, 
printing  and  the  tax  therefor,  the  photograph  and 

115 


116      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

the  tax  for  that  privilege,  and  the  government  stamp 
attesting  that  the  government  was  satisfied  it  could 
tax  no  more,  footed  up  to  seventy-five  pesetas,  or 
concisely,  thirteen  dollars  and  thirty  cents. 

But  —  if  there  is  anything  in  ofiicial  Spain  that 
has  not  a  "  but "  attached  it  should  be  preserved  in 
a  museum  —  but,  I  say,  the  kilometer-coupons  are 
printed  in  fives  rather  than  in  ones,  and  however 
small  the  fraction  of  distance  overlapping,  it  costs 
five  kilometers  of  ticket.  Moreover  —  there  is 
usually  also  a  *'  moreover  "  following  the  "  but " 
clause  in  Spanish  ordinances  —  moreover,  there  are 
hardly  two  cities  in  Spain  the  railway  distance  be- 
tween which  does  not  terminate  in  the  figures  one 
or  six.  It  does  not  seem  reasonable  to  believe  that 
the  railroads  were  surveyed  round-about  to  accom- 
plish this  result;  it  must  be,  therefore,  that  in  the 
hands  of  Spanish  railway  measurers  the  kilometer  is 
susceptible  to  such  shrinkage  as  may  be  needful. 
At  any  rate  —  and  this  is  the  thought  I  had  hoped 
to  lead  up  to  —  at  any  rate  it  was  very  often  pos- 
sible, by  walking  six  or  eleven  or  sixteen  kilometers, 
to  save  ten  or  fifteen  or  twenty  kilometers  of  ticket; 
and  the  game  of  thus  outwitting  the  railway  strat- 
egists was  incomparably  more  diverting  than  either 
solitaire  or  one-hand  poker. 

Thus  it  was  that,  though  I  planned  to  reach 
C6rdoba  that  evening,  I  left  Seville  during  the  morn- 
ing of  July   8  on   foot.     In  my  knapsack  was   a 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  117 

day's  supply  of  both  food  and  drink,  in  the  form 
of  three-cent's  worth  of  those  fresh  figs  that  abound 
in  Spain  —  the  one  fruit  that  is  certainly  descended 
directly  from  the  Garden  of  Eden.  For  miles  the 
route  led  across  a  desert-dry  land  as  flat  as  a  west- 
em  prairie,  grilling  in  the  blazing  sunshine.  At 
rare  intervals  an  olive-tree  cast  a  dense  black  shadow. 
There  was  no  grass  to  be  seen,  but  only  an  occa- 
sional tuft  of  bright  red  flowers  smiling  bravely 
above  the  moistureless  soil. 

Long  hours  the  retrospect  of  the  city  of  toreros 
remained,  the  overgrown  cathedral  bulking  gigantic 
above  all  else.  All  the  day  through  cream-white 
Carmona  on  her  hilltop  —  a  lofty  island  in  a  sea 
turned  sand  —  gleamed  off  to  the  southward,  visible 
almost  in  detail  through  the  truly  transparent  air 
of  Andalusia.  I  did  not  go  to  Carmona,  near  as 
she  is  to  Seville;  I  never  care  to,  for  certainly  she 
cannot  be  half  so  bewitching  in  reality  as  she  looks 
on  her  sheer-faced  rock  across  these  burning  plains  of 
sand.  To  the  north,  beyond  the  brown  Guadal- 
quivir, lay  the  distance-blue  foothills  of  the  Sierra 
Morena,  dying  away  in  the  northern  horizon. 

It  was  twenty-one  o'clock  by  her  station  time- 
piece when  I  descended  at  Cordoba  from  the  train 
I  had  boarded  in  the  dusk  at  Tocina.  A  mile's 
stroll  brought  me  to  the  city  itself,  and  a  lodging. 
Poor  old  C6rdoba  has  fallen  on  parlous  times. 
Like  those  scions  of  nobility   one  runs  across  now 


118      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

and  then  "  on  the  road,"  it  is  well  that  she  has  her 
papers  to  prove  she  was  once  what  she  claims  to 
have  been.  Surely  none  would  guess  her  to-day  a 
former  imperial  city  of  the  Caliphs,  the  Bagdad 
and  Mecca  of  the  West.  Her  streets,  or  rather  her 
alleys,  for  she  has  no  streets,  are  bordered  for  the 
most  part  by  veritable  village  hovels.  Most  African 
in  aspect  of  all  the  cities  of  Spain,  this  once  center 
of  Arabic  civilization  looks  as  if  she  had  been  over- 
whelmed so  often  that  she  has  utterly  lost  heart  and 
given  up,  expending  what  little  sporadic  energy  she 
has  left  in  constructing  a  tolerable  Alameda  to  the 
station,  either  that  she  may  have  always  open  an 
avenue  of  escape,  or  to  entice  the  unsuspecting 
traveler  into  her  misery. 

To  the  imagination  the  C6rdoba  of  to-day  is 
wholly  a  deception.  Yet  she  may  rest  assured  that 
she  will  not  be  entirely  forgotten  so  long  as  her  one 
lion,  the  cathedral,  or  more  properly  her  chief 
mosque,  remains.  For  in  spite  of  Christian  desecra- 
tion, in  spite  of  the  crippled  old  women  who  are 
incessantly  drawing  water  in  its  Patio  of  the  Orange- 
trees,  despite  even  the  flabby,  cynical  priests  that 
loaf  in  the  shade  of  the  same,  smoking  their  ciga- 
rettes, and  the  beggars  at  its  doors  like  running 
sores  on  the  landscape,  the  Mesdjid  al-Dijami  of 
Cordoba  does  not,  like  many  a  far-heralded  "  sight," 
bring  disappointment.     Once  in  the  cool  stillness  of 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  119 

its  forest  of  pillars  one  may  still  drift  back  into  the 
gone  centuries  and  rebuild  and  repeople  in  fancy  the 
sumptuous  days  of  the  Moor. 

This  reconstruction  of  the  past  was  not  uninter- 
rupted, however,  on  the  morning  of  my  visit.  For  in 
the  church,  that  heavy-featured  intruder  within  the 
mosque  like  a  toadstool  that  has  sprung  up  through 
some  broken  old  Etruscan  vase,  mass  was  celebrating. 
I  crossed  before  the  open  door  and  glanced  in. 
Some  thirty  strapping,  well-fed  priests  were  loun- 
ging in  the  richly-carved  choir  stalls,  chanting  a 
resonant  wail  that  was  of  vast  solace,  no  doubt,  to 
some  unhappy  soul  writhing  in  purgatory.  There 
was  not  the  shadow  of  a  worshiper  in  the  building. 
Yet  these  able-bodied  and  ostensibly  sane  men 
croaked  on  through  their  chants  as  serious-featured 
as  if  all  the  congregation  of  Cordoba  were  follow- 
ing their  every  syllable  with  reverent  awe. 

They  interfered  not  in  the  least  with  sight-seeing, 
however,  being,  as  I  have  said,  in  the  church  proper, 
an  edifice  wholly  distinct  from  the  mosque  and  one 
which  none  but  a  conscientious  tourist  or  a  fervent 
Catholic  would  care  to  enter.  There  were,  never- 
theless, certain  annoyances,  in  the  persons  of  a  half- 
dozen  blearing  crones  and  as  many  ragged  and  of- 
ficious urchins,  who  crowded  about  offering,  nay, 
thrusting  upon  me  their  services  as  guides. 

In  time  I  shook  off  all  but  one  ugly  fellow  of 


120      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

about  fifteen,  who  hung  irrepressibly  on  my  heela. 
Mass  ended  soon  after,  and  the  priests  filed  out  into 
the  mosque  chatting  and  rolling  cigarettes,  and  wan- 
dered gradually  away.  One  of  them,  however, 
catching  sight  of  me,  advanced  and  clutching  my 
would-be  guide  by  the  slacker  portions  of  his  rai- 
ment, sent  him  spinning  toward  the  door. 

**  Es  medio  loco,  eso,"  he  said,  stepping  forward 
with  a  shifty  smile  and  nudging  me  with  an  elbow, 
**  a  half-witted  fellow  who  will  trouble  you  no  more. 
With  your  permission  I  will  show  you  all  that  is  to 
be  seen,  and  it  shall  cost  you  nothing." 

I  accepted  the  offer,  not  because  any  guidance 
was  necessary,  or  even  desirable,  but  glad  of  every 
opportunity  for  closer  acquaintance  and  observa- 
tion of  that  most  disparaged  class  of  Spanish  society. 
To  one  to  whom  not  only  all  creeds,  but  each  of  the 
world's  half-dozen  real  religions  sum  up  to  much  the 
same  total,  the  general  condemnation  of  the  priest- 
hood of  Spain  had  hitherto  seemed  but  another  ex- 
ample of  prejudice. 

This  member  of  the  order  was  a  man  of  forty, 
stoop-shouldered,  his  tonsure  merging  into  a  frontal 
baldness,  with  the  face  and  manners  of  a  man-about- 
town  and  a  frequenter  of  the  Tenderloin.  For  three 
sentences,  perhaps,  he  conversed  as  any  pleasant 
man  of  the  world  might  with  a  stranger.  Then  we 
paused  to  view  several  paintings  of  the  Virgin. 
They  were  images  deeply  revered  by  all  true  Catho- 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  1^1 

lies,  yet  this  smirking  fellow  began  suddenly  to  com* 
ment  on  them  in  a  string  of  lascivious  indecencies 
which  even  I,  who  have  no  reverence  for  them  what- 
ever, could  not  hear  without  being  moved  to  protest. 
As  we  advanced,  his  sallies  and  anecdotes  grew  more 
and  more  obscene,  his  conduct  more  insinuating. 
When  he  fell  to  hinting  that  I  should,  in  return  for 
his  kindness,  bring  forward  a  few  tales  of  a  similar 
vintage,  I  professed  myself  sated  with  sight-seeing 
and,  leading  the  way  out  into  the  sunshine  to  the 
stone  terrace  overlooking  the  Guadalquivir,  with 
scanty  excuse  left  him. 

A  walk  across  the  stately  old  bridge  and  around 
the  century-crumbled  city  walls  lightened  my  spirits. 
In  the  afternoon,  cutting  short  my  siesta,  I  ven- 
tured back  to  the  cathedral.  The  hour  was  well 
chosen;  not  another  human  being  was  within  its 
walls.  Unattended  I  entered  the  famous  third 
mihrab  and  satisfied  myself  that  its  marble  floor  is 
really  worn  trough-like  by  the  knees  of  pious  Mo- 
hammedans, centuries  since  departed  for  whatever 
was  in  store  for  them  in  the  realm  of  houris.  Free 
from  the  prattle  of  "  guides,"  I  climbed  an  impro- 
vised ladder  into  the  second  mihrab,  which  was  un- 
dergoing repairs ;  and  for  a  full  two  hours  wandered 
undisturbed  in  the  pillared  solitude. 

Night  had  fallen  when  I  set  out  on  foot  from 
Cordoba.  The  heat  was  too  intense  to  have  per- 
mitted sleep  until  towards  morning,  had  I  remained. 


122      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

Over  the  city  behind,  in  the  last  glow  of  evening, 
there  seemed  to  rise  again  the  melancholy  chant,  ages 
dead,  of  the  muezzin: 

"Allah  M  Allah!  There  is  no  God  but  God. 
Come  to  prayer.     Allah  ill  Allah ! " 

The  moon  was  absent,  but  the  stars  that  looked 
down  upon  the  steaming  earth  seemed  more  brilliant 
and  myriad  than  ever  before.  In  spite  of  them  the 
darkness  was  profound.  The  Spaniard,  however,  is 
still  too  near  akin  to  the  Arab  to  be  wandering  in 
the  open  country  at  such  an  hour,  and  I  heard  not  a 
sound  but  my  own  footsteps  and  the  restless  repose 
of  the  summer  night  until,  in  the  first  hour  of  the 
morning,  I  arrived  at  the  solitary  station  of 
Arcolea. 

There  I  stretched  out  on  a  narrow  platform  bench, 
but  was  still  gazing  sleeplessly  at  the  sky  above 
when  a  *'  mixto  "  rolled  in  at  two-thirty.  The  pop- 
ulous third-class  compartment  was  open  at  the  sides, 
and  the  movement  of  the  train,  together  with  the 
chill  that  comes  at  this  hour  even  in  Spain,  made 
the  temperature  distinctly  cold.  That  of  itself 
would  have  been  endurable.  But  close  beside  me, 
oppressively  close  in  fact,  sat  a  woman  to  the  lee- 
ward of  forty,  of  the  general  form  of  a  sack  of 
wheat,  in  her  hand  the  omnipresent  fan.  Regularly 
at  two-minute  intervals  she  flung  this  open  from 
force  of  habit,  sent  over  me  several  icy  draughts  of 
air,  and  noting  the  time  and  place,  heaved  a  vast 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  123 

**  ay  de  mi  1 "  and  dropped  the  fan  shut  again  — 
for  exactly  another  two  minutes. 

I  slept  not  at  all  and,  descending  as  the  night  was 
fading  at  the  station  of  Espeluy,  shouldered  ray 
bundle  and  set  off  toward  the  sunrise.  Three  kilo- 
meters more  and  there  lay  before  me  the  great  open 
highway  to  Madrid,  three  hundred  and  seven  kilo- 
meters away.  I  struck  into  it  boldly,  for  all  my 
drowsiness,  reflecting  that  even  the  immortal  Murillo 
had  tramped  it  before  me. 

The  landscape  lay  desolate  on  either  hand,  almost 
haggard  in  the  glaring  sunshine,  offering  a  loneli- 
ness of  view  that  seemed  all  at  once  to  stamp  with 
reality  those  myriad  tales  of  the  land  pirates  of 
Spain.  Indeed,  the  race  has  not  yet  wholly  died  out. 
Since  my  arrival  the  peninsula  had  been  ringing  with 
the  exploits  of  one  Females,  a  bandit  of  the  old 
caliber,  who  had  thus  far  outgeneraled  even  that 
world-famous  exterminator  of  brigands,  the  modem 
guardia  civil.  His  haunt  was  this  very  territory  to 
the  left  of  me,  and  not  a  week  had  passed  since  a 
band  of  travelers  on  this  national  carretera  had  seen 
fit  to  contribute  to  his  transient  larder. 

But  his  was  an  isolated  case,  a  course  that  was 
sure  to  be  soon  run.  The  necessity  of  making  one's 
will  before  undertaking  a  journey  through  Spain  is 
no  longer  imperative.  In  fact,  few  countries  offer 
more  safety  to  the  traveler;  certainly  not  our  own» 
For  the  Spaniard  is  individually  one  of  the  most 


124      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

honest  men  on  the  globe,  notwithstanding  that  col- 
lectively, officially  he  is  among  the  most  corrupt. 
The  old  Oriental  despotism  has  left  its  mark,  deep 
to  this  day;  and  the  Spaniard  of  the  masses  asks 
himself  —  and  not  without  reason  —  why  he  should 
show  loyalty  to  a  government  that  is  little  more  than 
two  parties  secretly  bound  by  agreement  alternately 
to  share  the  spoils.  Hence  the  law-breaker  is  as  of 
yore  not  merely  respected  but  encouraged.  Per- 
cales in  his  short  career  had  become  already  a  hero 
and  a  pride  of  the  Spanish  people,  a  champion  war- 
ring single-handed  against  the  common  enemy. 

Without  pose  or  pretense  I  may  say  that  I  would 
gladly  have  given  two  or  three  ten-dollar  checks  and 
as  many  weeks  of  a  busy  life  to  have  fallen  into  the 
clutches  of  this  modem  Dick  Turpin.  His  retreat 
would  certainly  have  been  a  place  of  interest.  But 
fortune  did  not  favor,  and  I  passed  unmolested  the 
long,  hot  stretch  to  the  stony  hilltop  village  of 
Bailen,  a  name  almost  better  known  to  Frenchmen 
than  to  Spaniards. 

There,  however,  I  was  waylaid.  I  had  finished  a 
lunch  of  all  that  the  single  grocery-store  oflFered, 
which  chanced  to  be  stone-hard  cheese  and  water, 
and  was  setting  out  again,  when  two  civil  guards 
gruffly  demanded  my  papers.  This  was  the  only 
pair  I  was  destined  to  meet  whose  manners  were  not 
in  the  highest  degree  polished.  The  screaming  heat 
Was,  perhaps,  to  blame.     I  turned   aside   into  the 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  125 

shade  of  a  building  and  handed  them  my  passport, 
which  they  examined  with  the  circumspection  of  a 
French  gendarme.  In  general,  however,  it  spoke 
well  of  my  choice  of  garb  that  I  was  rarely  halted 
by  the  guardia  as  a  possible  vagrant  nor  yet  by  the 
officers  of  the  octroi  as  a  possessor  of  dutiable 
articles. 

It  would  seem  the  part  of  wisdom  in  tramping  in 
southern  countries  to  walk  each  day  until  toward 
noon  and,  withdrawing  until  the  fury  of  the  sun  is 
abated,  march  on  well  into  the  night.  But  the  plan 
is  seldom  feasible.  In  all  this  southern  Spain  espe- 
cially there  is  scarcely  a  patch  of  grass  large  enough 
whereon  to  lay  one's  head,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
body;  and  shade  is  rare  indeed.  On  this  day,  after 
a  sleepless  night,  a  siesta  seemed  imperative.  In 
mid-afternoon  I  came  upon  a  culvert  under  the  high- 
way and  lay  down  on  the  scanty,  dust-dry  leaves  at 
its  mouth,  shaded  to  just  below  the  arm-pits.  But 
sleep  had  I  none;  for  about  me  swarmed  flies  like 
vultures  over  a  field  of  battle,  and  after  fighting 
them  for  an  hour  that  seemed  a  week,  I  acknowledged 
defeat  and  trudged  drowsily  on. 

Soon  began  a  few  habitations  and  a  country 
growing  much  wheat.  In  nothing  more  than  in  her 
methods  of  husbandry  is  Spain  behind  —  or  as  the 
Spaniard  himself  would  put  it  —  different  from  the 
rest  of  the  world.  Her  peasantry  has  not  reached 
even  the  flail  stage  of  development,  not  to  mention 


126      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

the  threshing  machine.  The  grain  is  cut  with  sickles. 
As  it  arrives  from  the  field  it  is  spread  head-down 
round  and  round  a  saucer-shaped  plot  of  ground. 
Into  this  is  introduced  a  team  of  mules  hitched  to  a 
sled,  which  amble  hour  by  hour  around  the  en- 
closure, sometimes  for  days,  the  boy  driver  squatting 
on  the  cross-piece  singing  a  never-ceasing  Oriental 
drone  of  a  few  tones.  From  each  such  threshing- 
floor  the  chaff,  sweeping  in  great  clouds  across  the 
carretera,  covered  me  from  head  to  foot  as  I  passed. 

It  was  some  distance  beyond  the  town  of  Guarra- 
man  and  at  nightfall  that  I  entered  a  village  of  a 
few  houses  like  dug-out  rocks  tossed  helter-skelter 
on  either  side  of  the  way.  The  dejected  little  shop 
furnished  me  bread,  wine,  and  dried  fish  and  the  in- 
formation that  another  of  the  hovels  passed  for  a 
posada.  This  was  a  single  stone  room,  half  floored 
with  cobbles.  The  back,  unfloored  section  housed 
several  munching  asses.  The  human  portion  was 
occupied  by  a  stray  arriero,  the  shuffling,  crabbed 
old  woman  who  kept  the  place,  and  by  a  hearty, 
frank-faced  blind  man  in  the  early  thirties,  attended 
by  a  frolicsome  boy  of  ten.  It  was  furnished  with 
exactly  four  cooking  utensils,  a  tumbled  bundle  of 
burlap  blankets  in  one  corner,  a  smouldering  cluster 
of  fagots  in  another,  and  one  stool  besides  that  on 
[which  the  blind  man  was  seated. 

This  I  took,  reflecting  that  he  who  will  see  Spain 
must  not  expect  luxury.     The  real   Spaniard  lives 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  127 

roughly  and  shows  himself  only  to  those  who  are  will- 
ing to  rough  it  with  him.  As  I  sat  down,  the  blind 
man  addressed  me: 

**  Hot  days  these  on  the  road,  senor." 

*'  Verdad  es,"  I  answered. 

"  You  are  a  foreigner  from  the  north,"  he  re- 
marked casually,  as  if  to  himself. 

**  Yes ;  but  how  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  Oh,  a  simple  matter,"  he  replied.  "  That  you 
are  a  foreigner,  by  your  speech.  That  you  are 
from  the  north,  because  you  only  half  pronounce  the 
letter  R.  You  said  '  burro  '  in  speaking  of  our  four- 
legged  companion  there,  whereas  the  word  is  '  bur- 
r-r-ro.'     You  have  walked  many  leagues." 

"  What  tells  you  that?  " 

"Carajo!  Nothing  simpler.  Your  step  is  tired, 
you  sit  down  heavily,  you  brush  your  trousers  and  a 
thick  dust  arises." 

Blindness,  I  had  hitherto  fancied,  was  an  advan- 
tage only  during  certain  histrionic  moments  at  the 
opera,  but  here  was  a  man  who  evidently  made  it  a 
positive  blessing. 

*'  Your  are  about  twenty-five,"  he  continued. 

"  Twenty-six.  You  will  be  good  enough,  perhaps, 
to  tell  me  how  you  guessed  that." 

"  What  could  be  easier?  The  tone  of  your  voice; 
the  pace  at  which  your  words  fall.  It  is  strange  that 
you,  a  foreigner,  should  be  such  an  amateur  of 
buUs." 


128      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

"  Caramba !  "  I  gasped.  "  You  certainly  do  not 
learn  that  from  the  tone  of  my  voice ! " 

"Ah!  We  cannot  tell  all  our  secrets,"  he 
chuckled ;  "  we  who  must  make  a  living  by  them." 

Then  in  the  night  that  had  settled  down  he  fell 
to  telling  stories,  not  intentionally,  one  would  have 
said,  but  unconsciously,  fascinating  tales  as  those 
of  the  "  Arabian  Nights,"  full  of  the  color  and  the 
extravagance  of  the  East,  the  twinkle  of  his  ciga- 
rette gleaming  forth  from  time  to  time  and  outlin- 
ing the  boy  seated  wide-eyed  on  the  floor  at  his  feet 
with  his  head  against  his  master's  knee.  He  was 
as  truly  a  minstrel  as  any  troubadour  that  wandered 
in  the  days  of  chivalry,  a  born  story-teller  all  but 
unconscious  of  his  gift.  When  after  a  long  time 
he  left  off,  we  drifted  again  into  conversation.  He 
was  wholly  illiterate  and  in  compensation  more  flUed 
with  true  knowledge  and  wisdom  than  a  houseful  of 
schoolmen.  His  calling  for  five  and  twenty  years 
had  been  just  this  of  roaming  about  Spain  telling 
his  colorful  stories. 

*'  Were  you  bom  so  ?  "  I  asked  late  in  the  evening. 

*'  Even  so,  seiior." 

"A  sad  misfortune." 

**  You  know  best,  senor,"  he  answered,  with  a 
hearty  laugh.  *'  I  have  no  notion  how  useful  this 
feeling  you  call  sight  may  be,  but  with  those  I  have 
I  live  with  what  enjoyment  is  reasonable  and  find  no 
need  for  another." 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  129 

The  crippled  old  crone,  who  seemed  neither  to 
have  known  any  other  life  than  this  nor  ever  to  have 
been  attired  in  anything  than  the  piece-meal  rags 
that  now  covered  her,  dragged  the  heap  of  burlap 
from  the  comer  and  spread  it  in  three  sections  on 
the  stone  floor.  On  one  she  threw  herself  down  with 
many  sighs  and  the  creaking  of  rusty  joints,  the 
second  feU  to  my  lot,  and  the  blind  man  and  his  boy 
curled  up  on  the  third.  The  arriero  carried  his  own 
blanket  and  had  long  since  fallen  to  snoring  with 
his  head  on  the  saddle  of  his  ass  and  his  alforjas 
close  beside  him. 

There  is  one  Spanish  sentence  that  expresses  the 
most  with  the  least  breath,  perhaps,  of  any  single 
word  on  earth.  It  is  "  Madrugais  ? "  and  means 
nothing  less  than  "  Is  it  your  intention  to  get  up 
early  to-morrow  morning.?"  In  these  wayside 
fondas  it  calls  always  for  an  affirmative  answer,  for 
the  bedroom  is  certain  to  be  turned  into  the  living 
room  and  public  hall  and  stable  exit  at  the  first  glim- 
mer of  dawn. 

I  was  on  the  road  again  by  four-thirty.  Three 
hours  of  plodding  across  a  rising  country  brought 
me  to  La  Carolina,  a  town  as  pleasing  in  compari- 
son with  its  neighbors  as  its  name.  Its  customs, 
however,  were  truly  Spanish,  even  though  many  of 
the  ancestors  of  its  light-haired  populace  were  Swiss, 
and  my  untimely  quest  for  breakfast  did  nothing 
more  than  arouse  vast  astonishment  in  its  half-dozen 

9 


130      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

cafes,  wrecked  and  riotous  places  in  charge  of 
disheveled,  heavy-eyed  "  skittles."  In  the  open 
market  I  found  fresh  figs  even  cheaper  than  in 
Seville  and,  asking  no  better  fare,  turned  back 
toward  the  highway. 

I  had  passed  through  half  the  town  when  sud- 
denly I  heard  in  a  side  street  a  familiar  voice,  sing- 
ing to  the  accompaniment  of  a  guitar.  I  turned 
thither  and  found  the  blind  singer  I  had  first  en- 
countered in  Jaen,  just  on  the  point  of  drawing  out 
his  bundle  of  handbills.  While  his  wife  canvassed 
the  group  of  early  risers,  I  accosted  him  with  the  in- 
formation that  I  had  bought  one  of  his  sheets  in 
Jaen  a  month  before. 

"  Ah !  You  too  tramp  la  carretera  ?  "  he  replied, 
turning  upon  me  a  glance  so  sharp  that  for  the  mo- 
ment I  forgot  he  could  not  see. 

*'  Si,  seiior.  Do  you  not  also  sell  the  music  of 
your  songs  ?  " 

"  How  can  music  be  put  on  paper?  "  he  laughed. 
**  It  comes  as  you  sing.     Are  you  going  far?  " 

"  To  Madrid." 

*'  Vaya ! "  he  cried,  once  more  posing  his  guitar. 
**Well,  there  is  much  to  be  enjoyed  on  the  road  — 
when  the  sun  is  not  too  high.  Vaya  V.  con  Dios, 
young  man." 

Beyond  Las  Navas  de  Tolosa  the  face  of  the  land- 
scape changed,  the  carretera  mounting  ever  higher 
through  a  soiUess  stretch  of  angular  hills  of  dull- 


TRAMPING  NORTHWARD  131 

gray,  slate-colored  rock.  Above  Santa  Elena  these 
broke  up  into  deep  gorges  and  mountain  foothills, 
an  utterly  unpeopled  country  as  silent  as  the  grave. 
I  halted  to  gaze  across  it,  and  all  at  once,  reflecting 
on  the  stillness  as  of  desolation  that  hangs  over  all 
rural  Spain,  there  came  upon  me  the  recollection 
that  in  all  the  land  I  had  not  once  heard  the  note  of 
a  wild  bird. 

In  the  utter  quiet  I  reached  a  deep  slit  in  ihe 
flanking  mountain,  and  even  the  stream  that  de- 
scended along  its  bottom  was  as  noiseless  as  some 
phantom  river.  It  off^ered  all  the  facilities  for  a 
bath,  however,  and  moreover  under  an  overhanging 
mass  of  rock  that  warded  off  the  sun  had  watered 
to  un-Spanish  greenness  a  patch  of  grass  of  a  few 
feet  each  way.  There  I  spent  half  the  afternoon  in 
slumber.  The  highway  shortly  after  plunged  head- 
long down  into  the  very  depths  of  the  earth, 
squirmed  for  a  time  in  the  abyss,  then  clambered 
painfully  upward  between  precipitous  walls  of 
gloomy  slate  to  a  new  level.  When  suddenly,  unex- 
pectedly, almost  physically  there  rose  before  my  eyes 
the  picture  of  the  Knight  of  the  Sorrowful  Counte- 
nance, ambling  past,  close  followed  by  thickset,  hale- 
cheeked  Sancho  on  his  ass.  For  I  had  traversed  the 
pass  of  Despenaperros ;  languid  Andalusia  lay  be- 
hind me,  and  ahead  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
spread  the  yet  twice  more  barren  and  rocky  table- 
land of  La  Mancha. 


CHAPTER  VII 

SPANISH  BOADS  AND-  BOADSTERS 

IN  the  gloom  of  evening  I  espied  on  a  dull,  sterile 
hillside  a  vast  rambling  venta,  as  bare,  slate- 
colored,  and  marked  with  time  as  the  hills  themselves. 
Here  was  exactly  such  a  caravansary  as  that  in  which 
he  of  the  Triste  Figura  had  watched  over  his  arms 
by  night  and  won  his  Micomiconian  knighthood. 
It  consisted  of  an  immense  enclosure  that  was  half 
farmyard,  backed  by  a  great  stable  of  which  a  strip 
around  two  sides  beneath  the  low  vaulted  roof  had 
been  marked  oflp  for  the  use  of  man ;  the  whole  dull, 
gloomy,  cheerless,  unrelieved  by  a  touch  of  color. 
Within  the  building  were  scattered  a  score  of  mules, 
borricos  and  machos.  Several  tough-clothed  mule- 
teers, with  what  had  been  bright  handkerchiefs 
wound  about  their  brows,  sauntered  in  the  courtyard 
or  sat  eating  with  their  great  razor-edged  navajas 
their  lean  suppers  of  brown  bread  and  a  knuckle  of 
ham.  Even  the  massive  wooden  pump  in  the  yard 
among  an  array  of  ponderous  carts  and  wagons  was 
there  to  complete  the  picture.  Indeed,  this  was  none 
other  than  the  Venta  de  Cardenas,  reputed  the  very 

132 


SPANISH  ROADS  AND  ROADSTERS      133 

same  in  which  Don  Greaves  passed  his  vigilant  night, 
where  Sancho  was  tossed  in  a  blanket  and  Master 
Nicholas,  the  barber,  bearded  himself  with  a  cow'a 
tail. 

The  chance  betrayal  of  my  nationality  aroused  in 
the  arrieros  a  suggestion  of  wonder  and  even  an 
occasional  question.  But  in  general  their  interest 
was  as  meager  as  their  knowledge  of  the  world  out- 
side the  national  boundaries.  Not  once  did  they  dis- 
play the  eagerness  to  learn  that  is  so  characteristic  of 
the  Italian.  For  the  Spaniard  considers  it  beneath 
his  dignity  as  a  caballero  and  a  cristino  viejo  to  show 
any  marked  curiosity,  especially  concerning  a  foreign 
land,  which  cannot  but  be  vastly  inferior  to  his  own. 
Four  centuries  of  national  misfortune  and  shrinkage 
have  by  no  means  eradicated  his  firm  conviction,  im- 
planted in  his  mind  by  Ferdinand  and  Isabel  in  the 
days  of  conquest,  that  he  is  the  salt  of  the  earth, 
superior  in  all  things  to  the  rest  of  the  human  race. 

Spain  is  one  of  the  most  illiterate  countries  of  the 
civilized  world,  yet  also  one  of  the  best  educated, 
unless  education  be  merely  that  mass  of  undigested 
and  commonly  misapplied  information  absorbed 
within  four  walls.  Few  men  have  a  more  exact 
knowledge,  a  more  solid  footing  on  the  every- 
day earth  than  the  peasant,  the  laborer,  the 
muleteer  of  Spain.  One  does  not  marvel  merely 
at  the  fluent,  powerful,  entirely  grammatical  lan- 
guage of  these  unlettered  fellows,  but  at  the  sound 


134      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

basic  wisdom  that  stands  forth  in  their  every  sen- 
tence. If  their  illiteracy  denies  them  the  advantage 
of  absorbing  the  festering  rot  of  the  yellow  journal, 
in  compensation  they  have  a  wealth  of  vocabulary 
and  a  forceful  simplicity  of  diction  that  raises  them 
many  degrees  above  the  corresponding  class  in  more 
*'  advanced  "  lands. 

It  is  of  the  "  lower  '*  classes  that  I  am  speaking, 
the  common  sense  and  backbone  of  Spain.  The  so- 
called  upper  class  is  one  of  the  most  truly  ignorant 
and  uneducated  on  earth  —  though  among  its  mem- 
bers, be  it  noted,  is  no  illiteracy.  The  maltreated 
Miguel  was  adamantinely  right  in  choosing  his  hero 
from  the  higher  orders;  no  Spaniard  of  the  masses 
could  be  so  far  led  astray  from  reason  as  to  become 
a  Quixote. 

It  is  noticeable  that  the  Spaniard  of  the  laboring 
class  has  almost  none  of  that  subservience  born  in 
the  blood  in  the  rest  of  Europe.  Not  only  does  each 
man  consider  himself  the  equal  of  any  other ;  he  takes 
and  expects  the  world  to  take  for  granted  that  this  is 
the  case,  and  never  feels  called  upon  to  demonstrate 
that  equality  to  himself  and  the  rest  of  the  world  by 
insolence  and  rowdyism.  Dissipation  he  knows  not, 
except  the  dissipation  of  fresh  air,  sunshine,  and  a 
guitar.  Nowhere  in  Christian  lands  is  drunkenness 
more  rare.  Like  the  Arab  the  hardy  lower-class 
Spaniard  thrives  robustly  on  a  mean  and  scanty  diet ; 
he  can  sleep  anywhere,  at  any  time,  and  to  the  crea- 


SPANISH  ROADS  AND  ROADSTERS      135 

ture  comforts  is  supremely  indifferent.  One  can 
hardly  believe  this  the  country  in  which  Alfonso  X 
felt  it  necessary  to  enact  stem  laws  against  the  serv- 
ing of  more  than  two  dishes  of  meat  at  a  meal  or  the 
wearing  of  ** slashed"  silks.  Yet  the  Spain  of  to- 
day is  not  really  a  cheap  country;  it  is  merely  that 
within  its  borders  frugality  is  universal  and  held  in 
honor  rather  than  contempt. 

When  the  evening  grew  advanced,  my  fellow  guests 
lay  down  on  the  bare  cobble-stones  of  the  venta,  mak- 
ing pillows  of  the  furniture  of  their  mules,  and  were 
soon  sleeping  peacefully  and  sonorously.  For  me, 
soft-skinned  product  of  a  more  ladylike  world,  was 
spread  a  muleteer's  thick  blanket  in  the  embrasure 
of  a  wooden-blinded  window,  and  amid  the  munching 
of  asses  and  the  not  unpleasant  smell  of  a  Spanish 
stable  I,  too,  drifted  into  slumber. 

From  dawn  until  early  afternoon  I  marched  on 
across  the  rocky  vastness  of  Spain,  where  fields  have 
no  boundary  nor  limit,  a  gnarled  and  osseous  country 
and  a  true  despoblado,  as  fruitless  as  that  sterile  neck 
of  sand  that  binds  Gibraltar  to  the  continent.  It  is 
in  these  haggard,  unpeopled  plateaus  of  the  interior 
that  one  begins  to  believe  that  the  population  of  the 
peninsula  is  to-day  barely  one-third  what  it  was  in 
the  prosperous  years  of  Abd  er-Rahman. 

At  length,  across  a  valley  that  was  like  a  lake  of 
heat  waves,  appeared  Santa  Cruz,  a  hard,  colorless 
town  where  I  was  forced  to  be  content  with  the  usual 


136      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

bread,  cheese  and  wine,  the  former  as  ossified  as  the 
surrounding  countryside.  In  the  further  outskirts 
of  the  place  I  found  a  potter  at  work  in  a  large  open 
hovel  and  halted  to  pass  the  most  heated  hour  with 
him.  In  one  end  of  the  building  was  a  great  trough 
of  clay  in  which  a  bare-foot  boy  was  slowly  treading 
up  and  down.  Now  and  again  he  caught  up  a  lump 
of  the  dough  and  deposited  it  on  a  board  before  the 
potter.  This  the  latter  took  by  the  handful  and, 
placing  it  on  his  wheel,  whirled  it  quickly  into  a 
vessel  of  a  shape  not  unlike  a  soup-bowl.  I  inquired 
what  these  sold  for  and  with  a  sigh  he  replied: 

'*  Three  small  dogs  apiece,  cocidos  (cooked)  " — 
pointing  at  the  kiln  — ^^  y  cuantos  —  how  many 
break  in  the  glazing!     It  is  no  joyful  trade,  senor." 

Once  he  left  his  work  to  munch  a  crust  and  to  offer 
me  a  cigarette  and  a  drink  from  his  leather  bota,  but 
soon  drifted  back  to  his  task  with  the  restless,  har- 
assed look  of  the  piece-worker  the  world  over.  As 
I  sat  watching  his  agile  fingers  a  bit  drowsily,  there 
came  suddenly  back  to  memory  the  almost  forgotten 
days  when  I,  too,  had  toiled  thus  in  the  gloomy, 
sweltering  depths  of  a  factory.  Truer  slavery  there 
never  was  than  that  of  the  piece-worker  under  our 
modem  division  of  labor.  Stroll  through  a  factory 
to  find  a  man  seated  at  a  machine  stamping  strips  of 
tin  into  canheads  at  two  cents  a  hundred  by  a  few 
simple  turns  of  the  wrist,  and  his  task  seems  easy, 
almost  a  pastime  in  its  simplicity.     But  go  away  for 


SPANISH  ROADS  AND  ROADSTERS      13? 

a  year,  travel  through  half  the  countries  of  the 
globe,  go  on  a  honeymoon  to  Venice  and  the  Grecian 
isles,  and  then  come  back  to  find  him  sitting  on  the 
self-same  stool,  in  the  self-same  attitude,  stamping 
strips  of  tin  into  canheads  at  two  cents  a  hundred  by 
a  few  simple  turns  of  the  wrist. 

Three  blazing  hours  passed  by,  and  I  found  my- 
self entering  a  rolling  land  of  vineyards,  heralding 
wine-famous  Valdepenas.  The  vines  were  low  shrubs 
not  trained  on  sticks,  the  grapes  touching  the  ground. 
A  dip  in  an  exotic  stream  reduced  the  grime  and 
sweat  of  travel,  and  just  beyond  I  came  again  upon 
the  railway.  A  half-hour  along  it  brought  me  face 
to  face  with  the  first  foreign  tramp  I  had  met  in 
Spain, —  a  light-haired,  muscular  youth  in  tattered, 
sun-brown  garb,  his  hob-nailed  shoes  swung  over  one 
shoulder  and  around  his  feet  thick  bandages  of  bur- 
lap. He  was  a  German  certainly,  perhaps  a  modern 
Benedict  Moll  whose  story  would  have  been  equally 
interesting  in  its  absurdity.  But  he  passed  me  with 
the  stare  of  a  man  absorbed  in  his  personal  affairs 
and  accustomed  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  and  stalked 
away  southward  along  the  scintiUant  railroad. 

I  halted  for  a  drink  at  the  stuccoed  dwelling  of  a 
track-walker.  In  the  grassless  yard,  under  the  only 
imitation  of  a  tree  in  the  neighborhood,  slept  a 
roadster.  Now  and  again  the  chickens  that  scratched 
in  vain  the  dry,  lifeless  earth  about  him,  marched  dis- 
consolately across  his  prostrate  form. 


138      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  the  track-walker's  wife  at  the 
well,  "  he  has  known  misery,  more  even  than  the  rest 
of  us.     Vaya  corao  duerme !  '* 

I  sat  down  in  the  streak  of  shade  that  was  crawl- 
ing eastward  across  him.  He  wore  a  ten-day  beard 
and  the  garb  of  a  Spanish  workman  of  the  city,  set 
off  by  a  broad  red  faja  around  his  waist.  In  one 
bulging  pocket  of  his  coat  appeared  to  be  all  his 
earthly  possessions. 

There  was  no  evidence  of  overwhelming  "  miseria  " 
in  the  cheery  greeting  with  which  he  awoke,  and  as 
our  ways  coincided  we  continued  in  company.  He 
was  a  Sevillian  named  Jesus,  bound  northward  in  gen- 
eral and  wherever  else  the  gods  might  lead  him. 

"  For  a  long  time  there  has  been  no  work  in  Se- 
ville for  nosotros,  the  carpenters,"  he  explained, 
though  with  no  indication  of  grief.  "  This  half  year 
I  have  been  selling  apricots  and  azucarillos  in  the 
bullring  and  on  the  Alameda.  But  each  day  more  of 
Seville  comes  to  sell  and  less  to  buy.  I  should  have 
gone  away  long  ago,  but  my  comrade  Gasparo  would 
not  leave  his  amiga.  Gasparo  is  a  stone-polisher 
and  had  work. 

"  Then  one  day  I  am  taken  by  the  police  for  I 
know  not  what.  When  after  two  weeks  I  come  out, 
Gasparo  is  gone.  But  he  has  come  north  and  some- 
where I  shall  run  across  him." 

Jesus  had  just  passed  through  a  marvelous  experi- 
ence, which  he  proceeded  to  relate  in  all  his  Latin 


SPANISH  ROADS  AND  ROADSTERS      139 

wealth  of  language  —  though  not  in  the  phraseology; 
of  a  graduate  roadster: 

**Mira  V.,  hombre!  Two  nights  ago,  when  my 
feet  are  worn  away  with  more  than  ten  leguas  of  walk- 
ing on  the  railroad,  I  come  to  Baeza.  It  is  dark, 
and  I  wander  along  the  track  to  find  a  soft  bank  to 
sleep.  On  the  short  railroad  that  is  at  each  station 
there  is  waiting  a  train  of  merchandise.  Suddenly 
a  great  idea  comes  to  me.  *  Sh !  Jesus,'  I  whisper, 
*  what  if  you  should  hide  yourself  away  somewhere 
on  this  train  of  merchandise.'*  It  would  perhaps 
bring  you  to  the  next  station.* 

"  With  great  quiet  I  climb  a  wagon  and  hide  my- 
self between  bales  of  cork.  Screech!  BrrrJ 
Rboom!  The  train  is  off,  and  all  night  I  am  riding 
—  without  a  ticket.  But  at  Vilches  the  man  that  goes 
with  the  train  with  a  lantern  comes  by  and  it  is  my 
curse  to  be  making  some  noise,  moving  to  roll  a  ciga- 
rette. *Ya  te  'pia!'  (I  spy  you!)  he  cries.  Vaca 
que  soy !  So  of  course  I  must  get  down.  But  mira, 
hombre!  There  I  have  traveled  more  than  twelve 
miles  without  paying  a  perrito !  " 

I  had  not  the  heart  to  disillusion  him  with  a  yarn 
or  two  from  the  land  of  the  "  hobo." 

In  the  telling  we  had  come  within  sight  of  Valde- 
penas.  It  was  a  "  valley  of  rocks  "  indeed,  though 
a  city  of  good  size  and  considerable  evidence  of  in- 
dustry, abounding  with  great  bodegas,  or  wine  ware- 
houses.    As  we  trudged  through  the  long  straigli): 


140      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

street  that  had  swallowed  up  the  highway,  we  passed 
the  taller  of  a  marble-cutter. 

**  It  is  in  a  place  like  this  that  G^paro  works,'* 
sighed  Jesiis,  wandering  languidly  in  at  the  open 
door.  I  was  strolling  slowly  on  when  a  whoop  as  of 
a  man  suddenly  beset  by  a  band  of  savages  brought 
me  running  back  into  the  establishment.  Jesus  was 
shaking  wildly  by  both  hands  a  stockily-built  young 
fellow  in  shirt  sleeves  and  white  canvas  apron,  who 
was  rivaling  him  in  volubility  of  greeting.  Gaspsuro 
was  found. 

Still  shouting  incoherently,  the  two  left  the  shop 
and  squatted  in  the  shade  along  the  outside  walL 

"  Hombre ! "  panted  Jesus,  when  his  excitement  had 
somewhat  died  down.  "  I  have  told  myself  that  by 
to-morrow  we  should  be  tramping  the  carretera  to- 
gether." 

But  Gasparo  shook  his  head,  sadly  yet  decisively. 

"  No,  amigo.  Jamas !  Nunca !  Never  do  I  take 
to  the  road  again.  I  have  here  a  good  job,  the  finest 
of  patrons.  No.  I  shall  stay,  and  send  for  the 
amiga  —  or  find  another  here." 

With  the  dignity  of  a  caballero,  Jesus  accepted 
the  decree  without  protest,  and  wished  his  erstwhile 
comrade  luck  and  prosperity.  Then  that  they  might 
part  in  full  knowledge,  he  launched  forth  in  the  story 
of  his  journey  from  Seville.  Gasparo  listened  ab- 
sently, shaking  his  head  sadly  from  time  to  time. 
When  the  episode  of  the  amateur  hoboing  began^ 


SPANISH  ROADS  AND  ROADSTERS      141 

he  sat  up  with  renewed  interest ;  before  it  was  ended 
he  was  staring  at  the  speaker  with  clenched  fists,  hia 
eyes  bulging,  the  cigarette  between  his  lips  stone- 
dead.  From  that  great  epic  Jesus  jumped  without 
intermission  to  a  hasty  survey  of  the  anticipated  joys 
that  lay  between  him  and  Madrid.  Suddenly  Gasparo 
sprang  into  the  air  with  an  explosive  howl,  landing 
on  his  feet. 

**  By  the  blood  of  your  namesake ! "  he  shouted. 
**How  can  a  man  stay  always  in  one  place?  This 
daily  drudgery  will  kill  me!  I  will  throw  the  job  in 
the  patron's  face,  and  get  my  wages  this  very  minute, 
amaguito,  and  we  will  go  to  Madrid  together.  Jesus 
Maria!  Who  knows  but  we  can  hide  ourselves  on 
another  freight  train !  '* —  and  crying  over  his  shoul- 
der some  rendezvous,  he  disappeared  within  the  es- 
tablishment. 

We  sauntered  on  to  the  central  plaza.  It  was  ut- 
terly treeless  and  paved  with  cobble-stones ;  nor  could 
we  find  a  patch  of  grass  or  a  shaded  bench  in  all  the 
neighborhood. 

*'  Look  here,  senor ! "  cried  Jesus,  suddenly  rushing 
toward  a  policeman  who  was  loitering  in  the  shade  of 
a  bodega.  **  Don't  you  have  any  parks  or  Alamedas 
in  this  val  de  penas  of  yours?  You  call  this  a 
city!" 

**  Senor,"  replied  the  officer  in  the  most  apologetic 
of  voices,  "  we  are  not  a  rich  city,  and  the  rain  so  sel- 
dom falls  in  La  Mancha.     I  am  very  sorry,"  and 


142      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

touching  a  finger  respectfully  to  his  cap,  he  strolled 
slowly  on. 

Though  the  sun  was  low  it  was  still  wiltingly  hot 
in  the  stony  streets.  Jesus,  as  I  knew,  was  penniless, 
I  suggested  therefore  that  I  would  willingly  pay  the 
score  of  two  for  the  privilege  of  retreating  to  the 
coolness  of  a  wineshop. 

"  Bueno !  '*  cried  the  Sevillian.  "  The  wine  of 
Valdepenas  is  without  equal,  and  of  the  cheapest  — 
if  you  know  where  to  buy.     Varaonos,  hombre !  " 

He  led  the  way  down  the  street  and  by  some  Cas- 
tilian  instinct  into  a  tiny  underground  shop  that  was 
ostensibly  given  over  to  the  sale  of  charcoal.  The 
smudged  old  keeper  motioned  us  to  the  short  rickety 
bench  on  which  he  had  been  dreaming  away  the  after- 
noon and,  descending  still  lower  by  a  dark  hole  in  the 
floor,  soon  set  before  us  a  brown  glazed  pitcher  hold- 
ing a  quarto  —  about  a  quart  —  of  wine,  for  which 
I  paid  him  approximately  three  and  a  half  cents. 

In  all  western  Europe  I  have  drunk  the  common 
table  wine  in  whatever  quantity  it  has  pleased  me,  and 
suffered  from  it  always  the  same  effect  as  from  so 
much  clear  water.  It  may  be  that  the  long  tramp 
under  a  scorching  sun  and  the  distance  from  my  last 
meal-place  altered  conditions.  Certainly  there  was 
no  need  of  the  seller's  assurance  that  this  was  genuine 
•*  valdepenas  "  and  that  what  had  been  sold  us  else- 
where as  such  was  atrociously  adulterated.  Before 
the  pitcher  was  half  empty,  I  noted  with  wonder  that 


SPANISH  ROADS  AND  ROADSTERS      143 

I  was  taking  an  extraordinary  interest  in  the  old 
man's  phillipic  against  the  government  and  its  ex- 
orbitant tax  on  wine.  Jesus,  too,  grew  in  animation, 
and  when  the  subterranean  Demosthenes  ended  with  a 
thundering,  "  Si,  senores !  If  it  wasn't  for  the  cursed 
government  you  and  I  could  drink  just  such  wine  as 
this  pure  valdepenas  anywhere  as  if  it  was  water ! " 
I  was  startled  to  hear  us  both  applaud  loud  and  long. 
A  scant  four-cents'  worth  had  seemed  so  parsimonious 
a  treat  for  two  fuU-thirsted  men  that  I  had  intended 
to  order  in  due  time  a  second  pitcherful.  But  this 
strange  mirth  seemed  worthy  of  investigation.  I 
sipped  the  last  of  my  portion  and  made  no  movement 
to  suggest  a  replenishing.  A  few  minutes  later  the 
old  man  had  bade  us  go  with  the  Almighty,  and  we 
were  strolling  away  arm  in  arm. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  we  reached  the  plaza. 
We  sat  down  on  the  cathedral  steps.  The  Sevillian 
had  suddenly  an  unaccountable  desire  to  sing.  He 
struck  up  one  of  the  Moorish-descended  ballads  of 
his  native  city.  To  my  increasing  astonishment  I 
found  myself  joining  in.  Not  only  that,  but  for 
the  first  and  last  time  of  my  existence  I  caught  the 
real  Andalusian  rhythm.  An  appreciative  audience 
of  urchins  gathered.  Then  the  sacristan  stepped  out 
and  politely  invited  us  to  choose  some  other  stage. 

Across  the  square  was  a  casa  de  comidas.  We  en- 
tered and  ordered  dinner.  The  senora  served  us 
about  one-third  of  what  the  bill-of-fare  promised, 


144      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

and  demanded  full  price  —  something  that  had  never 
before  happened  in  all  my  Spanish  experience.  I 
protested  vociferously  —  another  wholly  unprece- 
dented proceeding.  The  policeman  who  had  apolo- 
gized for  the  absence  of  parks  sauntered  in,  and  I 
laid  the  case  before  him.  The  senora  restated  it  still 
more  noisily.  I  declared  I  would  not  pay  more  than 
one  peseta.  The  lady  took  oath  that  I  would  pay 
two.  The  policeman  requested  me  to  comply  with 
her  demand.  I  refused  to  the  extent  of  commanding 
him  to  take  his  hand  off  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  He 
apologized  and  suggested  that  we  split  the  difference. 
This  seemed  reasonable.  I  paid  it,  and  we  left. 
Dark  night  had  settled  down.  We  marched  aim- 
lessly away  into  it.  Somewhere  Gasparo  fell  in  with 
us.  Somewhere  else,  on  the  edge  of  the  city,  we 
came  upon  a  heap  of  bright  clean  straw  on  a  thresh- 
ing floor,  and  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ON  THE  BOAD  IN  lA  MANCHA 

IT  was  Sunday  morning,  the  market  day  of  Val- 
depenas,  when  I  returned  alone  to  stock  my 
knapsack.  The  plaza  that  had  been  so  deserted  and 
peaceful  the  evening  before  was  packed  from  casa  de 
comidas  to  cathedral  steps  with  canvas  booths  in 
which  the  peasants  of  the  encircling  country  were 
selling  all  the  products  of  La  Mancha,  and  among 
which  circulated  all  the  housewives  of  Valdepenas, 
basket  on  arm.  The  women  of  the  smaller  cities  of 
Spain  cling  stoutly  to  their  local  costumes,  aping 
not  in  the  least  the  world  of  fashion.  These  of  Val- 
depenas were  strikingly  different  from  the  Anda- 
lusians,  considering  how  slight  the  distance  that  sep- 
arates them  from  that  province.  They  were  almost 
German  in  their  slowness,  with  hardly  a  suggestion 
of  "  sal " ;  a  solemn,  bronze-tanned  multitude  who, 
parting  their  hair  in  the  middle  and  combing  it  tight 
and  smooth,  much  resembled  Indian  squaws. 

From  the  northern  edge  of  the  city  the  highway 
ran  straight  as  the  flight  of  a  crow  to  where  it  was 
lost  in  a  flat,  colorless  horizon.     The  land  was  arti- 

»«  145 


146      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

ficially  irrigated.  The  first  place  I  stopped  for  wa- 
ter was  a  field  in  which  an  old  man  was  driving  round 
and  round  a  blind-folded  burro  hitched  to  a  noriaj 
a  water-wheel  that  was  an  exact  replica  of  the  Egyp- 
tian sakTctty  even  to  its  squawk,  jars  of  Andujar  being 
tied  to  the  endless  chain  with  leather  thongs.  The 
man,  too,  had  that  dreamy,  listless  air  of  the  Egyp- 
tian fellah;  had  I  had  a  kodak  to  turn  upon  him  I 
should  have  expected  him  to  run  after  me  crying  for 
**  backsheesh." 

Ahead  stretched  long  vistas  of  low  vineyards.  The 
only  buildings  along  the  way  were  an  occasional  bare 
uniform  stone  dwelling  of  a  peon  caminero,  or  gov- 
ernment road-tender.  At  one  of  these  I  halted  to 
quench  my  thirst,  and  the  occupant,  smoking  in  Sab- 
bath ease  before  it,  instantly  pronounced  me  a 
*'  norte  americano."  I  showed  my  astonishment,  for 
hardly  once  before  in  the  peninsula  had  I  been  taken 
for  other  than  a  Frenchman,  or  a  Spaniard  from 
some  distant  province. 

The  peon's  unusual  perspicacity  was  soon  ex- 
plained; he  had  been  a  soldier  in  Cuba  during  the 
Spanish-American  War.  I  readily  led  him  into 
reminiscences.  Throughout  the  war,  he  stated,  he 
had  fought  like  a  hero,  not  because  he  was  of  that 
rare  breed  but  because  every  member  of  the  troop 
had  been  filled  with  the  belief  that  once  captured  by 
**  los  yanquis  "  he  would  be  hanged  on  the  spot. 


ON  THE  ROAD  IN  LA  MANCHA       147 

*'  And  are   you   still   of  the   opinion  ? "  I   asked. 

**  Que  barbaridad !  "  he  laughed.  "  I  was  taken 
at  Santiago  and  carried  a  prisoner  to  your  country. 
What  a  people!  A  whole  meal  at  breakfast!  We 
lived  as  never  before,  or  since. 

"  You  were  quite  right,  vosotros,  to  take  the  is- 
land. I  do  not  blame  you.  It  was  competicion,  just 
competition,  like  two  shop-keepers  in  the  city.  I  am 
glad  the  miserable  government  lost  their  Cuba." 

So  often  did  I  hear  exactly  this  view  from  Span- 
iards of  the  laboring  class  that  it  may  be  considered 
typical  of  their  attitude  toward  the  late  disagreement. 
The  strange  question  has  often  been  asked  whether 
it  is  safe  so  soon  after  the  war  for  a  North  American 
to  travel  alone  in  the  interior  of  Spain.  For  answer 
we  have  only  to  ask  ourselves  whether  a  Spaniard 
traveling  alone  in  the  interior  of  the  United  States 
would  be  in  any  imminent  danger  of  having  his 
throat  cut  —  even  had  we  been  defeated.  In  Spain 
there  is  vastly  less,  for  not  only  is  the  Spaniard 
quicker  to  forgive  and  far  less  belligerent  than  he 
is  commonly  fancied,  but  there  exists  in  the  penin- 
sula not  one-tenth  the  rowdyism  and  hoodlum  "  patri- 
otism "  of  our  own  country. 

I  stayed  long  and  left  with  difficulty.  Gre- 
garious is  man,  and  on  Sunday,  when  all  the  world 
about  him  is  at  rest,  even  the  pedestrian  finds  it  hard 
to  exert  himself.     A  league  beyond  I   came  upoa 


148      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

the  Sevillians  lolling  in  the  shadow  of  another  iso- 
lated peon  dwelling  in  what  seemed  once  to  have  been 
a  village. 

Jesus  in  his  eleven-day  beard  hailed  me  from  afar ; 
moreover,  the  Sunday  languor  was  still  upon  me.  I 
stretched  out  with  them  in  the  shade  of  the  building, 
but  the  flies  prevented  us  from  sleeping.  We  crawled 
into  a  peasant's  cart  under  the  shed  —  but  the  flies 
quickly  found  us  out.  We  crossed  the  road  to  the 
ruin  of  a  church,  split  almost  exactly  through  the 
middle  of  tower  and  all,  and  one  side  fallen.  Within 
it  was  a  grassy  comer  where  the  sun  never  fell,  and 
even  a  bit  of  breeze  fanned  us.  But  the  flies  had 
made  this  their  Spanish  headquarters.  We  decided 
to  go  on. 

In  that  only  were  we  unanimous,  for  the  Sevillians 
wished  to  follow  the  railroad,  a  furlong  away,  and  I 
the  carretera.  I  had  all  but  won  them  over  when  a 
freight  train  labored  by. 

"  Ay !  Ay !  Los  toros ! "  shouted  the  two  in 
chorus. 

"  Where .''  "  I  asked,  seeing  no  such  animals  in 
sight. 

"En  las  j aulas,  hombre!  In  the  cages!"  cried 
Jesus,  pointing  to  a  flat-car  on  which,  set  close  to- 
gether, were  six  tightly-closed  boxes  each  just  large 
enough  to  hold  a  bull. 

"  We  go  by  the  railroad ! "  shouted  Gasparo,  de- 
cisively.    "  Alma  de  Dios !     Who  knows  but  we  may 


ON  THE  ROAD  IN  LA  MANCHA       149 

be  able  to  hide  ourselves  on  a  train  that  is  carrying 
toros  to  the  corrida !  " 

We  separated,  therefore,  and  struck  northward, 
though  we  marched  side  by  side  within  hailing  dis- 
tance until  we  were  all  three  swallowed  up  in  the  city 
of  Manzanares. 

The  bare-faced,  truly  Manchegan  town  was  half- 
deserted,  though  the  reason  therefor  was  not  hard  to 
guess,  for  the  bullring  in  the  outskirts  was  howling 
as  I  passed.  For  all  its  size  the  place  did  not  seem 
to  boast  an  eating-house  of  any  description.  At  last 
I  halted  before  an  old  man  seated  in  a  shaded  comer 
of  the  plaza,  to  inquire : 

'*  Senor,  what  does  a  stranger  in  your  town  do 
when  he  would  eat?  " 

"  Vaya,  senor ! "  he  replied,  with  the  placid  delib- 
eration of  age,  and  pointing  with  his  cane  to  the 
shops  that  bordered  the  square.  **  He  buys  a  perrito 
of  bread  in  the  bakery  there,  dos  perros  of  ham  in 
the  butchery  beyond,  fruit  of  the  market-woman  — " 

"  And  eats  it  where  ?  "  I  interrupted. 

"Hi jo  de  mi  alma!"  responded  the  patriarch 
with  extreme  slowness  and  almost  a  touch  of  sarcasm 
in  his  voice.  "  Here  is  the  broad  plaza,  all  but 
empty.  In  all  that  is  there  not  room  to  sit  down 
and  eat.?  " 

I  continued  my  quest  and  entered  two  posadas. 
But  for  the  only  time  during  the  summer  the  pro- 
prietors demanded  my  cedula  personal,     I  explained 


150      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

that  Americans  are  not  supplied  with  these  govern- 
ment licenses  to  live,  and  showed  instead  my  passport. 
Both  landlords  protested  that  it  was  not  in  Spanish 
and  refused  to  admit  me.  One  might  have  fancied 
one's  self  in  Germany.  It  was  some  time  after  dark 
that  I  was  directed  to  a  private  boarding-house  that 
almost  rewarded  my  long  search.  For  the  supper 
set  before  me  was  equal  to  a  five-course  repast  in  the 
Casa  Robledo  of  Granada,  and  for  the  first  time  since 
leaving  Seville  I  slept  in  a  bed,  and  not  in  my  clothes. 

In  the  morning  an  absolutely  straight  road  lay 
before  me  across  a  land  treeless  but  for  a  few  stunted 
shrubs,  a  face  of  desolation  and  aridity  and  solitude 
as  of  Asia  Minor.  From  the  eastward  swept  a  hot, 
dry  wind  across  the  baked  plains  of  La  Mancha  that 
recalled  all  too  forcibly  the  derivation  of  its  name 
from  the  Arabic  manxa  —  a  moistureless  land. 

At  fifteen  kilometers  the  highway  swerved  slightly 
and  lost  from  view  for  the  first  time  the  immense 
cathedral  of  Manzanares  behind.  On  either  hand, 
miles  visible  in  every  direction,  huddled  stone  towns 
on  bare  hillsides  and  in  rocky  vales,  each  inconspic- 
uous but  for  its  vast  overtowering  church.  "  Si  la 
demeure  des  hommes  est  pauvre,  celle  de  Dieu  est 
riche,"  charges  colorful  Gautier ;  which,  if  the  church 
of  Spain  is  truly  the  "  demeure  de  Dieu,"  is  sternly; 
true.  City,  town,  village,  hamlet,  a  church  always 
bulks  vast  above  it  like  a  hen  among  her  chicks  — 
rather  like  some  violent  overpowering  tyrant  with  • 


ON  THE  ROAD  IN  LA  MANCHA       151 

club.  To  the  right  of  the  turn  one  might,  but  for 
a  slight  ris^  of  ground,  have  espied  a  bare  twelve 
kilometers  away  immortal  Argamasilla  itself. 

During  the  day  there  developed  a  hole  in  my  shoe, 
through  a  sole  of  those  very  "  custom-made "  ox- 
fords warranted  by  all  the  eloquent  Broadway  sales- 
man held  sacred  —  whatever  that  may  have  been 
—  to  endure  at  least  six  months  of  the  hardest  pos- 
sible wear.  Sand  and  pebbles  drifted  in,  as  sand 
and  pebbles  will  the  world  over  under  such  circum- 
stances, and  for  some  days  to  come  walking  was  not 
of  the  smoothest. 

Almost  exactly  at  noonday  I  caught  sight  of  the 
first  windmills  of  La  Mancha,  three  of  them  slowly 
toiling  together  on  a  curving  hillside,  too  distinctly 
visible  at  this  hour  to  be  mistaken  by  the  most  ro- 
mance-mad for  giants.  The  few  peasants  I  fell  in 
with  now  and  then  were  a  more  placid,  somber  people 
than  the  Andaluz  and,  as  is  commonly  the  case  in 
villages  reached  by  no  railway,  more  courteous  to 
the  roadster  than  their  fellows  more  directly  in  touch 
with  the  wide  world. 

It  was  that  hour  when  the  sun  halts  lingering 
above  the  edge  of  the  earth,  as  if  loath  to  leave  it, 
that  I  entered  the  noiseless  little  hamlet  of  Puerto 
Lapiche.  It  contained  no  public  hostelry,  but  the 
woman  who  kept  its  single  shop  cooked  me  a  supper, 
chiefly  of  fried  eggs,  which  I  ate  sitting  on  a  stool 
before    the    building.     The    fried    eggs    of    Spain! 


152      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

Wherein  their  preparation  differs  from  that  in  othe* 
lands  I  know  not,  but  he  who  has  never  eaten  them 
after  a  long  day's  tramp  cannot  guess  to  what  Epi- 
curean heights  fried  eggs  may  rise.  How,  knowing 
of  them,  could  Sancho  have  named  cow-heel  for  his 
choice? 

The  evening  was  of  that  soft  and  gentle  texture 
that  invites  openly  to  a  night  out-of-doors.  On  the 
edge  of  the  open  country  beyond,  too,  was  a  thresh- 
ing-floor heaped  with  new  straw  that  would  certainly 
have  been  my  choice,  had  not  the  village  guardia 
been  watching  my  every  movement  from  across  the 
way.  When  I  had  returned  the  porcelain  frying- 
pan  to  its  owner,  I  strolled  boldly  across  to  the  offi- 
cer and  inquired  for  a  lodging. 

"  With  regret,  senor,"  he  replied,  raising  his  hat 
and  offering  me  the  stool  on  which  he  had  been 
seated,  **  I  am  forced  to  say  that  we  are  a  small  vil- 
lage so  rarely  honored  by  the  presence  of  travelers 
that  we  have  no  public  house.  But — "  he  hesitated 
a  moment,  then  went  on  *' — the  weather  is  fine, 
senor;  the  night  is  warm,  the  pure  air  hurts  no  one; 
why  do  you  not  make  your  bed  on  the  soft,  clean  straw 
of  the  threshing-floor  yonder.'"' 

"  Caballero,"  I  responded,  with  my  most  Spanish 
salute,  "  a  thousand  thanks  —  and  may  your  grace 
remain  with  God." 

For  the  first  time  during  my  journey  the  heat  was 
tempered  next  morning,  though  by  no  means  routed, 


ON  THE  ROAD  IN  LA  MANCHA      153 

by  a  slightly  overcast  sky.  The  wind  continued. 
The  highway  led  on  through  a  seared  brown  country, 
for  the  most  part  a  silent,  smokeless,  unpeopled  land. 
The  windmills  of  La  Mancha  were  numerous  now 
on  either  hand  as  the  road  sank  slowly  down  to  a  gap 
in  the  low,  gaunt  mountains  of  Ciudad  Real.  At 
last  it  reached  them  and,  picking  its  way  through 
the  narrow  pass  of  Lapiche,  strode  off  again  across 
a  still  hotter,  drier  region,  unmitigated  even  by  the 
wind,  which  had  stopped  short  at  the  mountain  bar- 
rier—  a  land  flowing  not  even  with  ditch-water.  I 
halted  but  briefly  at  the  large  village  of  Madridejos, 
peopled  by  a  slow,  dreamy-eyed,  yet  toil-calloused 
peasantry,  as  if  their  world  of  fancy  and  the  hard 
stony  life  of  reality  never  quite  joined  hands. 

Hot,  thirsty  and  hungry,  I  came  in  mid-afternoon 
to  an  isolated  ramshackle  venta  in  a  rocky  wilder- 
ness. An  enormous  shaggy  man  of  a  zoological  cast 
of  countenance,  and  a  male-limbed  girl  were  harness- 
ing mules  in  the  yard.  No  other  living  thing  showed 
itself.  I  off^ered  a  peseta  for  food.  The  man  glared 
at  me  for  a  time  in  silence,  then  growled  that  he 
sold  nothing,  but  that  I  should  find  a  posada  not  far 
beyond.  He  was  evidently  the  champion  prevari- 
cator of  that  region,  for  not  the  suggestion  of  a  hovel 
appeared  during  the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  But  he 
would  be  a  fellow  with  Sancho  indeed,  who  could  not 
overrule  a  few  hour's  appetite  in  thinking  of  higher 
things,  and  no  fit  traveler  in  this  hard,  toilsome  land 


154      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

where  overeating  is  not  numbered  among  the 
vices. 

The  setting  of  the  sun  was  perhaps  an  hour  off 
when  the  highway,  swinging  a  bit  to  the  left  and 
surmounting  a  barren,  rocky  ridge,  laid  suddenly  be- 
fore me  an  enthralling  prospect.  Below,  far  down 
on  a  distinctly  lower  level,  a  flat,  ruffled  country  still 
misty  with  rising  waves  of  heat,  stretched  away  to 
the  uttermost  endless  distance.  The  whole,  glinting 
in  the  oblique  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  was  scored  in 
every  direction  with  dull  rock  villages  huddled  com- 
pactly together,  while  on  every  hand,  like  signal  fires 
on  a  western  prairie,  rose  from  a  hundred  threshing- 
floors  columns  of  chaff  straight  and  slender  into  the 
motionless  air  to  an  incredible  height  before  break- 
ing up.  The  road  descended  with  decision,  yet  in 
no  unseemly  haste  and,  marching  for  an  hour  across 
a  coimtry  traveled  only  by  an  occasional  donkey 
loaded  with  chopped  straw,  led  me  at  nightfall  into 
the  scene  of  Sancho's  labors  in  the  wheat-piles—- 
the  village  of  Tembleque. 

In  its  immense  fonda,  but  for  the  underground 
stables  one  single,  vast,  cobble-paved  room,  a  vacant- 
eyed  old  man,  a  girl,  and  a  leviathan  of  a  woman  sat 
among  the  carts,  wine-casks,  and  heaps  of  harnesses, 
the  latter  knitting.  In  strictest  Castilian  the  estab- 
lishment was  no  fonda,  but  a  parador,  from  parar, 
to  stop ;  and  certainly  it  could  not  with  honesty  have 
laid  claim  to  any  more  inviting  name,  for  assuredly 


ON  THE  ROAD  IN  LA  MANCHA       155 

no  man  in  his  senses  would  have  dreamed  of  choosing 
it  as  a  staymg--p[a.ce.  When  I  asked  if  lodging  was 
to  be  had,  the  woman  replied  with  a  caustic  sneer  that 
she  had  always  been  able  thus  far  to  accommodate  any 
who  were  able  and  willing  to  pay. 

'*  And  can  one  also  get  supper?  "  I  inquired  timor- 
ously. 

"  How  on  earth  do  I  know  ?  "  snapped  the  woman. 

I  stared  with  a  puzzled  air  at  the  old  man  and  he 
in  like  manner  at  the  knitter,  who  turned  out  to  be 
his  wife,  espoused  in  budding  maidenhood  when  his 
march  in  life  had  well  begun. 

"  How  can  I  cook  him  supper  if  he  has  none  with 
him?  "  snarled  the  no  longer  maidenly. 

"  Er  —  what  have  you  brought  to  eat?  "  asked  the 
preadamite  in  a  quavering  voice. 

"  Nothing  to  be  sure.     What  is  a  fonda  for?  " 

"  Ah,  then  how  can  la  senora  mia  get  you  supper? 
Over  the  way  is  the  butcher,  beyond,  the  green-grocer, 
further  still  the  panadero — " 

I  returned  some  time  later  with  meat,  bread,  po- 
tatoes, garbanzos,  and  a  variety  of  vegetables,  sup- 
plied with  which  the  senora  duly  prepared  me  a  sup- 
per—  by  sitting  tight  in  her  chair  and  issuing  a 
volley  of  commands  to  the  girl  and  the  old  man.  For 
this  service  she  demanded  two  "  fat  dogs,"  and  col- 
lected at  the  same  time  an  equal  amount  for  my  lodg- 
ing. 

When   I   had   eaten,   the   mistress    of   the   hou39 


156      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

IMumbled  a  word  to  the  dotard.  He  lighted  with 
trembling  hand  a  sort  of  miner's  lamp  and  led  the 
way  downward  into  the  subterranean  stable  and  for 
what  seemed  little  short  of  a  half-mile  through  great 
stone  vaults  musty  with  time,  close  by  the  cruppers 
of  an  army  of  mules  and  burros.  Opening  at  last  a 
door  some  three  feet  square  and  as  many  above  the 
floor,  he  motioned  to  me  to  climb  through  it  into  a 
bin  filled  with  chaff.  This  was  to  all  appearances 
clean,  yet  I  hesitated.  For  in  these  endless  vaults, 
to  which  the  outer  air  seemed  not  to  have  penetrated 
for  a  century,  it  was  cold  as  a  November  evening., 
I  glanced  at  the  old  man  in  protest.  He  blinked  back 
at  me,  shook  his  ever-quaking  head  a  bit  more 
forcibly,  and  turning,  shuffled  away  through  the  re- 
sounding cavern,  the  torch  casting  at  first  weird, 
dancing  shadows  behind  his  wavering  legs,  then 
gradually  dying  out  entirely.  I  stood  in  blackest 
darkness,  undecided.  Before,  however,  the  last  faint 
sound  of  his  going  had  wholly  passed  away,  the 
scrape  of  the  veteran's  faltering  feet  grew  louder 
again  and  in  another  moment  he  reappeared,  clutch- 
ing under  one  thin  arm  a  heavy  blanket.  When  I 
had  taken  it,  he  put  a  finger  to  his  lips,  cast  his 
sunken  eyes  about  him,  whispered  "  sh ! "  with  a 
labored  wink,  and  tottered  once  more  away.  I 
climbed  into  the  bin  and  slept  soundly  until  the  curs- 
ing of  arrieros  harnessing  their  mules  aroused  me 
shortly  before  dawn. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  TEAIL  OF  THE  PKIEST 

THE  people  of  Tembleque  had  been  just  certain 
enough  that  none  but  an  arriero  could  follow 
the  intricate  route  thither,  and  that  no  man  could 
cover  the  distance  on  foot  in  one  day,  to  cause  me  to 
awaken  determined  to  leave  the  Madrid  highway  and 
strike  cross-country  to  Toledo.  The  first  stage  of 
the  journey  was  the  road  to  the  village  of  Mora, 
which  I  was  long  in  finding  because  at  its  entrance 
to  —  which  chanced  also  to  be  its  exit  from  —  Tem- 
bleque it  split  up  like  an  unraveled  shoe-string.  I 
got  beyond  the  loose  ends  at  last,  however,  and  set  a 
sharp  pace  —  even  though  the  hole  in  my  shoe  had 
enlarged  to  the  size  of  a  peseta  —  across  a  scarred 
and  weather-beaten  landscape  that  seemed  constantly 
reminding  how  aged  is  the  world. 

Twenty-four  kilometers  brought  me  to  Mora,  a 
sturdy  town  of  countrymen,  in  time  for  an  early  and 
stinted  dinner  and  inquiries  which  led  me  off  in  a 
new  direction  up  a  steadily  mounting  region  to  Mas- 
cargne.  There,  at  a  still  different  point  of  the  com- 
pass, a  ruined  castle  on  a  hilltop  ten  kilometers  away 

157 


158      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

was  pointed  out  to  me  as  the  landmark  of  El  Mona- 
cail ;  to  which  village  a  rugged  and  sterile  road  clam- 
bered over  a  country  hunch-backed  with  hills.  It  was 
siesta-time  when  I  arrived,  the  sun  scorching  hot,  a 
burning  wind  sweeping  among  the  patched  and  mis- 
shapen hovels  that  made  up  the  place.  There  were 
no  inhabitants  abroad,  which  argued  their  good 
sense;  but  in  the  shadow  of  the  only  public  building 
a  trio  of  soldiers  were  playing  at  cards.  They  leered 
at  me  for  some  time  when  I  made  inquiry,  then  burst 
out  in  derisive  laughter. 

"  Claro,  hombre !  "  answered  one  of  them  sarcastic- 
ally. "  You  can  walk  to  Toledo  la  Santa  if  you 
know  enough  to  follow  a  cow-path." 

I  stumbled  into  it  just  beyond,  a  cow-path  indeed, 
though  too  little  used  to  be  clearly  marked,  and 
meandering  in  and  out  with  it  for  twenty  kilometers 
through  rocky  barrancas  and  across  sandy  patches, 
gained  as  the  day  was  nearing  its  close  the  wind- 
bitten  village  of  Nambroca.  A  few  miles  more 
through  a  still  greater  chaos  of  rocks  and  I  came  out 
unexpectedly  on  the  crest  of  a  jagged  promontory 
that  brought  me  to  a  sudden  halt  before  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  panoramas  in  all  Spain. 

A  still  higher  rise  cutting  off  the  foreground,  there 
began  a  few  miles  beyond,  the  vast,  wrinkled,  verdure- 
less  plateau  of  Castile,  rolling  away  and  upward  like 
an  enormous  tilted  profile-map  of  the  world,  sea-blue 
with  distance  and  heat  rays,  all  details  blended  to- 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  PRIEST         159 

gether  into  an  indistinctness  that  left  only  an  un- 
divided impression  like  a  Whistlerian  painting. 
I  pushed  forward  and  at  the  top  of  the  next  ridge 
gasped  aloud  with  new  wonder.  From  this  summit 
the  worid  fell  pell-mell  away  at  my  feet  into  a  bot- 
tomless gorge ;  and  beyond,  two  or  three  miles  away, 
the  culminating  point  in  a  tumultuous  landscape  of 
ravines,  guUeys  and  precipitous  chasms,  sat  an 
Oriental  city,  close-packed  and  isolated  in  its  rocky 
solitude,  the  sun's  last  rays  casting  over  its  domes 
and  minaret-like  spires  a  flood  of  color  that  seemed 
suddenly  and  bodily  to  transport  the  beholder  into 
the  very  heart  of  Asia.  My  goal  was  won;  before 
me  lay  the  ancient  capital  of  the  Goths,  history-rich 
Toledo. 

I  sat  down  on  the  crest  of  the  precipice  overhang- 
ing the  Tajo,  almost  beneath  the  enormous  iron  cross 
set  in  a  rock  to  mark  Toledo  as  the  religious  center 
of  Spain,  and  remained  watching  the  city  across  the 
gulf,  full  certain  that  whatever  offered  within  its 
walls  could  in  no  degree  equal  the  view  from  this 
facing  hilltop.  Richly  indeed  did  this  one  sight  of 
her  reward  the  long  day's  tramp  across  the  chok- 
ing hills,  even  had  there  not  been  a  pleasure  in  the 
walk  itself ;  and  upon  me  fell  a  great  pity  for  those 
that  come  to  her  by  railroad  in  the  glare  of  day  and 
the  swelter  of  humanity. 

As  I  sat,  and  the  scene  was  melting  away  into  the 
descending  night,  a  voice  sounded  behind  me  and  a 


160      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

ragged,  slouching  son  of  fortune  proffered  the  ac- 
customed greeting  and,  rolling  a  cigarette,  sat  down 
at  my  side.  He  was  a  "  child  of  Toledo,"  and  of  his 
native  city  we  fell  to  talking.  At  length  he  raised 
his  flabby  fist  and,  shaking  it  at  the  twinkling  lights 
across  the  Tajo,  cried  out: 

"  O  Toledo,  my  city !  Gaunt,  sunken-bellied 
Toledo,  bound  to  your  rock  and  devoured  by  the  vul- 
ture horde  of  bloated  churchmen  while  your  children 
are  starving! 

"  Senior,"  he  continued,  suddenly  returning  to  a 
conversational  tone,  "  let  me  show  you  but  one  of  a 
thousand  iniquities  of  these  frailuchos." 

He  rose  and  led  the  way  a  little  further  along  the 
path  I  had  been  following,  halting  at  the  edge  of  a 
yawning  hole  in  the  rocks,  like  a  bottomless  well,  the 
existence  of  which  I  was  thankful  to  have  learned  be- 
fore I  continued  my  way. 

"  Senor,"  he  said,  "  no  man  can  tell  how  many 
have  died  here,  for  it  lies,  as  you  see,  in  the  very 
center  of  the  trail  over  these  hills.  For  a  hun- 
dred years,  as  my  grandfather  has  known,  it  has 
stood  so.  But  do  you  think  yon  cursed  priests  would 
spend  a  perrito  of  their  blood-sweated  booty  to 
cover  it  ?  " 

It  was  black  night  when  I  picked  my  way  down 
into  the  valley  of  the  Tajo  and,  crossing  the  Alkan- 
tara  bridge,  climbed  painfully  upstairs  into  Toledo. 
Even  within,  the  Oriental  impression  was  not  lost* 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  PRIEST         161 

though  the  Castilian  tongue  sounded  on  every  side. 
With  each  step  forward  came  some  new  sign  to  re- 
call that  for  half  the  past  eight  hundred  years  Toledo 
was  an  Arab-ruled  and  Arabic-speaking  city.  Thus 
it  is  still  her  Eastern  fashion  to  conceal  her  wealth  by 
building  her  houses  inwardly,  leaving  for  public 
thoroughfare  the  narrow,  haphazard  passageways  be- 
tween them,  and  giving  to  the  arriving  stranger  the 
sensation  of  wandering  through  a  haughty  crowd  of 
which  each  coldly  turns  his  back. 

Her  medley  of  streets  was  such  as  one  might  find 
in  removing  the  top  of  an  ant-hill,  an  ant-hill  in 
which  modem  improvements  have  made  little  prog- 
ress ;  her  pavements  of  round,  century-polished  cob- 
ble-stones, glinting  in  the  weak  light  of  an  occasional 
street-lamp,  were  painful  indeed  to  blistered  feet. 
Ugly  and  bam-like  outwardly,  like  the  Alhambra,  hen 
houses  frequently  resemble  that  ancient  palace,  too, 
in  that  they  are  rich  with  decoration  and  comfort 
within.  It  was  an  hour  or  more  before  I  was  directed 
to  a  casa  de  huespedes  in  the  calle  de  la  Lechuga,  or 
Lettuce  street,  a  gloomy  crack  between  two  rows  of 
buildings.  The  house  itself  was  such  as  only  a  man 
of  courage  would  have  entered  by  night  in  any  other 
city.  I  ventured  in,  however,  and  found  the  family 
out-of-doors  —  lolling  in  the  flower  and  palm-grown 
patio  beneath  the  star-riddled  sky,  the  canvas  that 
formed  the  roof  by  day  being  drawn  back.  Even  the 
well  was  in  the  patio,  on  which  opened,  like  the  others. 


162      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

the  room  to  which  I  was  assigned,  presenting  toward 
the  street  a  blank,  windowless  wall. 

It  was  late  the  next  forenoon  before  I  had  slept  the 
forty  hot  and  rocky  miles  out  of  my  legs  and  sallied 
forth  to  visit  a  shoemaker.  As  he  lived  only  two 
streets  away,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to  find  him  in 
less  than  an  hour,  and  as  Toledo  is  the  last  city  in  the 
world  in  which  a  man  would  care  to  run  about  in  his 
socks,  I  sat  on  a  stool  beside  his  workbench  for  some- 
thing over  three  hours.  His  home  and  shop  consisted 
of  one  cavernous  room;  his  family,  of  a  wife  who 
sewed  so  incessantly  that  one  might  easily  have 
fancied  her  run  by  machinery,  and  of  a  daughter  of 
six  who  devised  more  amusement  with  a  few  scraps 
of  leather  than  many  another  might  with  all  the  toys 
of  Niimberg.  The  shoemaker  was  of  that  old-fash- 
ioned tribe  of  careful  workmen,  taking  pride  in  their 
labor,  whom  it  is  always  a  joy  to  meet  —  though  not 
always  to  sit  waiting  for.  He,  too,  hinted  at  the 
misery  of  life  in  Toledo,  but  unlike  the  specter  of  the 
night  before,  did  not  lay  the  blame  for  the  sunken 
condition  of  his  city  on  the  **  f  railuchos,"  charging 
it  rather  to  the  well-known  perverseness  of  fate, 
either  because  he  was  of  an  orthodox  turn  of  mind 
or  because  his  wife  sat  close  at  hand.  When  he  had 
finished,  having  sewed  soles  and  nailed  heels  on  my 
shoes  that  were  to  endure  until  Spain  was  left  behind, 
he  collected  a  sum  barely  equal  to  forty  cents. 

In  striking  contrast  to  him  —  indeed,  the  two  well 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  PRIEST         163 

illustrated  the  two  types  of  workmen  the  world 
harbors  —  was  the  barber  who  performed  the  next 
service.  He  was  a  mountain  of  sloth  who  rose  with 
almost  a  growl  at  being  disturbed  and,  his  mind  else- 
where, listlessly  proceeded  to  the  task  before  him. 
Though  he  was  over  forty  and  knew  no  other  trade, 
he  had  not  learned  even  this  one,  but  haggled  and 
clawed  as  that  breed  of  man  will  who  drifts  through 
life  without  training  himself  to  do  anything.  The 
reflective  wanderer  comes  more  and  more  to  respect 
only  the  man,  be  he  merely  a  street-sweeper,  who  does 
his  life's  work  honestly ;  the  "  four-flusher  "  is  ever 
a  source  of  nausea  and  a  lowerer  of  the  tone  of  life, 
be  he  the  president  of  a  nation. 

While  I  suffered,  a  priest  dropped  in  to  have  his 
tonsure  renovated  and  gloriously  outdid  in  the  scrof- 
ulousness  of  Lis  anecdotes  not  only  this  clumsy 
wielder  of  the  helmet  of  Mambrino,  but  exposed  poor 
timorous  Boccaccio  for  a  prude  and  a  Quaker. 

Packed  away  down  in  a  hollow  of  the  congested 
city  is  that  famous  cathedral  sumamed  *'  la  Rica." 
'*  The  Rich  " —  it  would  be  nearer  justice  to  dub  her 
the  Midian,  the  Ostentatious,  for  she  is  so  overbur- 
dened and  top-heavy  with  wealth  that  one  experiences 
at  sight  of  her  a  feeling  almost  of  disgust,  as  for 
a  woman  garish  with  jewelry.  We  of  the  United 
States  must  see,  to  conceive  what  shiploads  of  riches 
are  heaped  up  within  the  churches  of  Spain  by  the 
superstitions  of  her  people  and  the  rapacity  of  her 


164      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

priests,  who,  discovering  the  impossibility  of  laying 
up  their  booty  hereafter,  agree  with  many  groans  to 
stack  it  here. 

*'  The  Spanish  church,"  observes  Gautier,  "  is 
scarcely  any  longer  frequented  except  by  tourists, 
mendicants,  and  horrible  old  women."  If  one  choose 
the  right  hour  of  the  afternoon  even  these  vexations 
are  chiefly  absent,  entirely,  perhaps,  but  for  a  poor 
old  crone  or  two  kneeling  before  some  mammoth  doll 
tricked  out  to  represent  the  Virgin  and  bowing  down 
now  and  then  in  true  Mohammedan  fashion  to  kiss 
the  stone  flagging.  The  Iberian  traveler  must  visit 
the  cathedrals  of  the  peninsula,  not  merely  because 
they  ofi'er  the  only  cool  retreat  on  a  summer  day,  but 
because  they  are  the  museums  of  Spain's  art  and 
history.  But  even  the  splendor  of  the  setting  sun 
through  her  marvelous  stained-glass  windows  cannot 
overcome  the  oppressiveness  of  "  la  Rica." 

As  he  stands  before  the  wondrous  paintings  that 
enrich  the  great  religious  edifices  of  Spain,  the  mat- 
ter-of-fact American  of  to-day  is  not  unlikely  to  be 
assailed  by  other  thoughts  than  the  pure  esthetic. 
There  comes,  perhaps,  the  reflection  of  how  false  is 
that  oft-repeated  assertion  that  the  world's  truly  great 
artists  exercised  their  genius  solely  for  pure  art's- 
sake.  Would  they  then  have  prostituted  their  years 
on  earth  to  tickling  the  vanity  of  their  patrons,  in 
depicting  the  wife  of  some  rich  candle-maker  walk- 
ing arm  in  arm  with  the  Nazarene  on  the  Mount  of 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  PRIEST         165 

Olives,  or  the  absurdity  of  picturing  Saint  Fulano, 
who  was  fed  to  Roman  lions  in  A.  D.  300,  strolling 
through  a  Sevillian  garden  with  the  infant  Jesus  in 
his  arms  and  a  heavenly  smirk  on  his  countenance? 
How  much  greater  treasures  might  we  have  to-day 
had  they  thrown  off  the  double  yoke  of  contempo- 
raneous superstitions  and  servility  to  wealth  and 
painted,  for  example,  the  real  Mary  as  in  their  cre- 
ative souls  they  saw  her,  the  simple  Jewish  housewife 
amid  her  plain  Syrian  surroundings.  Instead  of 
which  they  have  set  on  canvas  and  ask  us  to  accept  as 
their  real  conception  voluptuous-faced  "  Virgins " 
who  were  certainly  painted  from  models  of  a  very  dif- 
ferent type,  and  into  whose  likeness  in  spite  of  the 
painter's  skill  has  crept  a  hint  that  the  poser's 
thoughts  during  the  sitting  were  much  less  on  her 
assumed  motherhood  of  a  deity  than  on  the  coming 
evening's  amours. 

Horror,  too,  stands  boldly  forth  in  Spanish  paint* 
ing.  The  Spaniard  is,  incongruously  enough,  «» 
realist  of  the  first  water.  He  will  see  things  ma* 
terially,  graphically ;  the  bullfight  is  his  great  de- 
light, not  the  pretended  reality  of  the  theatert 
Centuries  of  fighting  the  infidel,  centuries  of  court- 
ing self-sacrifice  in  slaying  heretics,  the  reaction 
against  the  sensuous  gentleness  of  the  Moor,  have  all 
combined  to  make  his  Christianity  fervid,  savage, 
sanguinary.  Yielding  to  which  characteristic  of  his 
fellow-countrymen,  or  tainted  with  it  himself,  many 


166      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

a  Spanish  artist  seems  to  have  gloried  in  depicting 
in  all  gruesome  detail  martyrs  undergoing  torture, 
limbs  and  breasts  lopped  off  and  lying  bleeding  close 
at  hand,  unshaven  torturers  wielding  their  dripping 
knives  with  fiendish  merriment.  These  horrors,  too, 
are  set  up  in  public  places  of  worship,  where  little 
children  come  daily,  and  even  men  on  occasion.  It 
is  strange,  indeed,  if  childhood's  proneness  to  imita- 
tion does  not  make  the  playground  frequently  the 
scene  of  similar  martyrdoms.  How  much  better  to 
treat  the  tots  to  a  daily  visit  to  the  morgue,  where 
what  they  see  would  at  least  be  true  to  nature  —  and 
far  less  repulsive. 

There  are  other  *'  sights "  in  Toledo  than  the 
cathedral  for  him  who  is  successful  in  running  them 
down  in  her  jungle  of  streets.  Each  such  chase  is 
certain  sooner  or  later  to  bring  him  out  into  the 
Zocodover,  that  disheveled  central  plaza  in  which  the 
sunbeams  fall  like  a  shower  of  arrows.  The  inferno 
into  which  he  seems  plunged  unwarned  chokes  at 
once  the  rambler's  grumble  at  the  intricacies  of  the 
city  and  brings  him  instead  to  mumble  praises  of  the 
Arabs,  who  had  the  good  sense  so  to  build  that  the 
sun  with  his  best  endeavors  rarely  gets  a  peep  into  the 
depth  of  the  pavement;  and  the  time  is  short  indeed 
before  he  dives  back  into  the  relief  of  one  of  the  radi- 
ating calles. 

As  often  as  I  crossed  the  "  Zoco  '*  my  eyes  were 
3rawn  to  a  ragged  fellow  of  my  own  age,  with  a  six- 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  PRIEST         167 

inch  stump  for  one  leg,  lolling  prone  on  the  dirt-car- 
peted earth  in  a  comer  of  the  square,  mumbling  from 
time  to  time  over  his  cigarette : 

*'  Una  limosnita,  senores ;  que  Dios  se  lo  pagara.'* 
There  was  in  his  face  evidence  that  he  had  been 
born  with  fully  average  gifts,  perhaps  special  tal- 
ents; and  a  sensation  of  sadness  mingled  with  anger 
came  upon  me  with  the  reflection  that  through  all  the 
years  I  had  been  living  and  learning  and  journeying 
to  and  fro  upon  the  earth,  this  hapless  fellow-mortal 
had  been  squatting  in  the  dust  of  Toledo's  Zocodover, 
droning  the  national  lamentation: 

*'  A  little  alms,  senores,  and  may  God  repay  you.'* 
Just  another  was  he  of  her  thousands  of  sons 
that  Spain  has  wantonly  let  go  to  waste,  until  even 
at  this  early  age  he  had  sunk  to  a  lump  of  living  hu- 
man carrion  that  all  the  powers  of  earth  or  from 
Elsewhere  could  not  remake  into  the  semblance  of  a 
man. 

Try  though  one  may,  one  cannot  escape  the  con- 
viction that  the  fat  of  Toledo  goes  to  the  priest- 
hood, both  physically  and  figuratively.  High  or  low, 
the  churchmen  that  overrun  the  place  have  all  a  sleek, 
contented  air  and  on  their  cynical,  sordid  faces  an 
all  too  plain  proof  of  addiction  to  the  flesh  pots; 
while  the  layman  has  always  a  hungry  look,  not  quite 
always  of  animal  hunger  for  food,  but  at  least  for 
those  things  that  stand  next  above.  Nowhere  can 
one  escape  the  cloth.     Every  half -hour  one  is  sure  to 


168      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

run  across  at  least  a  bishop  tottering  under  a  for- 
tune's-worth  of  robes  and  attended  by  a  bodyguard 
of  acolytes,  pausing  now  and  again  to  shed  his  puta- 
tive blessing  on  some  devout  passer-by.  Of  lesser 
dignitaries,  of  cowled  monks  and  religious  mendi- 
cants there  is  no  lack,  while  with  the  common  or 
garden  variety  of  priest,  a  cigarette  hanging  from  a 
comer  of  his  mouth,  his  shovel  hat  set  at  a  rakish 
angle,  his  black  gown  swinging  with  the  jauntiness 
of  a  stage  Mephistopheles,  ogling  the  girls  in  street 
or  promenade,  the  city  swarms.  Distressingly  close 
is  the  resemblance  of  these  latter  to  those  creatures 
one  may  find  loitering  about  the  stage-door  toward 
the  termination  of  a  musical  comedy. 

I  sat  one  afternoon  on  a  bench  of  that  broken 
promenade  that  partly  surrounds  Toledo  high  above 
the  Tajo,  watching  the  sun  set  across  the  western 
vega,  when  my  thoughts  were  suddenly  snatched  back 
through  fully  a  thousand  years  of  time  by  the  six- 
o'clock  whistle  of  the  Fabrica  de  Armas  below. 
When  my  astonishment  had  died  away,  there  came 
over  me  the  recollection  that  not  once  before  in  all 
Spain  had  I  heard  that  sound,  a  factory  whistle. 
Agreeable  as  that  absence  of  sibilant  discord  is  to 
the  wanderer's  soul,  I  could  not  but  wonder  whether 
just  there  is  not  the  outward  mark  of  one  of  the  chief 
reasons  why  the  Spain  of  to-day  straggles  where  she 
does  in  the  procession  of  nations. 

I  descended  one  afternoon  from  Lettuce  street  to 


THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  PRIEST  169 

the  sand-clouded  station  on  the  plain  and  spent  the 
ensuing  night  in  Aranjuez,  a  modern  checker-board 
city  planted  with  exotic  elms  and  royal  palaces.  It 
was  again  afternoon  before  I  turned  out  into  the 
broad  highway  that,  crossing  the  Tajo,  struck  off 
with  business-like  directness  across  a  vega  fertile 
with  wheat.  Before  long  it  swung  sharply  to  the 
right  and,  laboring  up  the  scarified  face  of  a  cliff, 
gained  the  great  central  tableland  of  Castilla  Nueva, 
then  stalked  away  across  a  weird  and  solemn  land- 
scape as  drear  and  desolate  as  the  hills  of  Judea. 

The  crabbed  village  that  I  fell  upon  at  dusk  fur- 
nished me  bread  and  wine,  but  no  lodging.  I  plodded 
on,  trusting  soon  to  find  a  more  hospitable  hamlet. 
But  the  desolation  increased  with  the  night;  neither 
man  nor  habitation  appeared.  Toward  eleven  I  gave 
up  the  search  and,  stepping  off  the  edge  of  the  high- 
way, found  a  bit  of  space  unencumbered  with  rocks 
and  lay  down  until  the  dawn. 

The  sun  rose  murky.  In  twenty  kilometers  the 
deserted  carretera  passed  only  two  squalid  wine- 
shops. Then  rounding  in  mid-morning  a  slight  emi- 
nence, it  presented  suddenly  to  my  eyes  a  smoky,  in- 
distinct, yet  vast  city  stretching  on  a  higher  plane 
half  across  the  desolate  horizon.  It  was  Madrid. 
I  tramped  hours  longer,  so  uncertainly  did  the 
highway  wander  to  and  fro  seeking  an  entrance, 
but  came  at  last  into  a  miserable  outskirt  vil- 
lage and  tossed  away  the  stick  that  had  borne  my 


170      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

knapsack  since  the  day  I  had  fashioned  that  con- 
venience in  the  southern  foothills  of  Andalusia. 
Two  besmirched  street  Arabs,  pouncing  upon  it 
almost  as  it  fell  —  so  extraordinary  a  curiosity  was 
it  in  this  unwooded  region  —  waged  pitched  battle 
until  each  carried  away  a  half  triumphant.  I  pushed 
on  across  the  massive  Puente  de  Toledo  high  above 
the  trickle  of  water  that  goes  by  the  name  of  the 
river  Manzanares  and,  mounting  through  a  city  as 
different  from  Toledo  as  Cairo  from  Damascus, 
halted  at  last  in  the  mildly  animated  Puerta  del  Sol, 
the  center  of  Spain  and,  to  the  Spaniard,  of  the 
imiverse. 


CHAPTER  X 


SHADOWS    OF    THE    PHIUPS 


A  DAY  or  two  later  I  was  Installed  for  a  fort- 
night in  a  casa  de  huespedes  in  the  calle  San 
Bernardo.  In  such  places  as  one  plans  to  remain 
for  any  length  of  time  there  are  few  cheaper  ar- 
rangements for  ample  fare  in  all  Europe  than  these 
Spanish  "  houses  of  guests."  My  room,  which  was 
temporarily  on  the  second-floor  front,  but  solemnly 
pledged  to  be  soon  changed  to  the  third-floor  back, 
was  all  that  an  unpampered  wanderer  could  have  re- 
quired. Breakfast  was  light ;  a  cup  of  chocolate  and 
a  roll  —  no  self-respecting  traveler  ventures  to 
sample  Spanish  cofi^ee  more  than  once.  But  one 
soon  grows  accustomed  and  indeed  to  prefer  the 
European  abstemiousness  at  the  first  meal.  In  com- 
pensation the  almuerzo  and  comida,  at  twelve  and 
seven,  were  more  than  abundant.  A  thick  soup, 
not  unseldom  redolent  of  garlic,  was  followed  by  a 
salad,  and  that  by  a  pucJwro,  which  is  to  say  an 
entire  meal  on  one  platter, —  in  the  center  a  square 
of  boiled  beef  flanked  like  St.  Peter's  amid  the  hills  of 
Rome  by  seven  varieties  of  vegetables,  the  garbage 

171 


172      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

zos  —  bright  yellow  chickpeas  of  the  size  of 
marbles  —  with  the  usual  disproportion  granted  that 
robust  comestible  in  Spain,  overtowering  not  only 
every  other  eminence  but  carpeting  the  intervening 
valleys.  That  despatched,  or  seriously  disfigured, 
there  came  a  second  offering  from  the  animal  world, 
—  a  cocido  or  an  olla  podrida,  after  which  the  re- 
past descended  gradually  by  fruit,  cheese,  and  ciga- 
rettes to  its  termination.  Through  it  all  a  common 
wine    flowed    generously. 

Even  on  Friday  this  sturdy  good  cheer  knew  no 
abatement.  Centuries  ago,  in  the  raging  days  of 
the  Moor,  the  faithful  of  Spain  were  granted  for 
their  Catholic  zeal  and  bodily  behoof  this  dispensa- 
sation,  that  they  might  nourish  their  lean  frames  on 
whatever  it  should  please  Santiago,  their  patron,  to 
bring  within  bowshot  of  their  home-made  crosspieces. 
The  Moor  has  long  since  removed  his  dusky  shadow 
from  the  land,  but  the  dispensation  remains.  In- 
deed, there  is  left  scarcely  a  custom  the  inobserv- 
ance of  which  betrays  the  non-Catholic;  or  if  one 
there  be  at  all  general  it  is  this:  when  he  yawns  — 
which  he  is  not  unwont  to  do  even  at  table  —  the 
devout  Spaniard  makes  over  his  mouth  the  sign  of 
the  cross,  to  keep  the  devil  from  gaining  a  foothold 
therein  —  an  exorcism  that  is  not  always  successful. 

There  is  yet  another  custom,  quite  the  opposite 
of  religious  in  result  at  least,  which  the  guest  at  a 
casa  de  huespedes  must  school  himself  to  endure.     It 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  173 

grows  out  of  the  Spaniard's  infernal  politeness. 
Figure  to  yourself  that  you  have  just  returned  from 
a  morning  of  tramping  through  sweltering  Madrid 
on  the  ephemeral  breakfast  already  noted,  and  sit 
down  at  table  just  as  a  steaming  puchero  is  served. 
With  a  melodious  and  self-sacrificing  "  Serve  your- 
self, senor,"  the  addle-pated  Spaniard  across  the 
way  pushes  the  dish  to  his  neighbor;  to  which  the 
neighbor  responds  by  pushing  it  back  again  with  a 
**  No !  Serve  yourself,  seiior,"  followed  in  quick  suc- 
cession by  "  No !  No !  Serve  yourself,  seiior ;  "  "  No ! 
No !  No !  seiior !  Serve  yourself !  "  **  No !  No !  No ! 
No !  serve  — "  and  so  on  to  the  end  of  time,  or  until 
a  wrathy  Anglo-Saxon,  rising  in  his  place,  picks  up 
the  source  of  dispute  and  establishes  order. 

Our  household  in  the  calle  San  Bernardo  consisted 
of  a  lawyer,  a  **  man  of  affairs  " —  using  the  lat- 
ter word  in  its  widest  signification  —  of  two  young 
Germans,  *'  Don  Hermann  "  and  "  Don  RIcardo," 
for  some  time  employed  In  the  city,  and  of  the  family 
itself.  Of  this  the  husband,  a  slouching,  toothless 
fellow  of  fifty,  and  the  grandmother  were  mere 
supernumeraries.  The  speaking  parts  were  taken  by 
the  wife  and  daughter,  the  former  an  enormous, 
unpolished  woman  with  a  well-developed  mus- 
tache and  the  over-developed  voice  of  a  stevedore. 
Indeed,  a  stentorian,  grating  voice  and  a  habit  of 
speaking  always  at  the  tiptop  of  it  is  one  of  the 
chief  afflictions  of  the  Spanish  women  of  the  masses 


174      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

—  and  of  their  hearers.  Is  it  by  chance  due  to  the 
custom  of  studying  and  reciting  always  aloud  and 
in  chorus  during  their  few  years  of  schooling?  Quien 
sabe?  There  was  presented  during  my  stay  in  Ma- 
drid the  play,  or  more  properly  playlet  —  zarzuela  — 
**  Levantar  Mueros  —  Raising  the  Dead  " ;  but  I 
dared  not  go  lest  it  turn  out  to  be  a  dramatized  sew- 
ing circle. 

But  it  remains  to  introduce  the  star  member  of  the 
cast,  the  center  of  that  San  Bernardo  universe  around 
which  revolved  mother,  supernumeraries,  and  guests 
like  planets  in  their  orbits  —  the  daughter.  I  fully 
expect  to  wander  many  a  weary  mile  before  I  again 
behold  so  beautiful  a  maid  —  or  one  that  I  should 
take  more  pleasure  in  being  a  long  way  distant  from. 
She  was  sixteen  —  which  in  Spain  is  past  childhood 

—  a  glorious,  faultless  blonde  in  a  land  where 
blondes  are  at  high  premium,  her  lips  forming  what 
the  Spaniard  calls  a  "  nido  de  besos  " —  a  nest  of 
osculatory  delights  —  and  —  But  why  drive  the 
impossible  task  further?  Such  radiant  perfections 
in  human  form  must  be  seen  at  least  to  be  appre- 
ciated. It  is  sufficient,  perhaps,  to  mention  that  her 
likeness  was  on  sale  in  every  novelty  shop  in  Madrid 
and  found  more  purchasers  than  that  of  Machaquito, 
King  of  the  Toreros.     In  short,  a  supreme  beauty 

—  had  she  been  captured  early  and  suitably  polished 
instead  of  remaining  at  home  with  mother  until  she 
had  acquired  mother's  voice,  and  mother's  roughshod 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  175 

manners,  and  a  slothful  habit  of  life  that  was  des- 
tined, alas,  in  all  probability  to  end  by  reproducing 
her  mother's  bulk  and  mustache. 

There  are  two  things  worth  seeing  in  howling, 
meeowling,  brawling,  blistering  Madrid  —  her  out- 
door life  and  the  Prado  museum.  It  was  the  latter 
that  I  viewed  by  day,  for  when  relentless  August  has 
settled  down  the  capital  is  not  merely  hot,  it  is  plu- 
tonic,  cowering  under  a  dead,  sultry  heat  without  the 
relief  of  a  breath  of  air,  a  heat  that  weighs  down 
like  a  leaden  blanket  and  makes  Seville  seem  by  com- 
parison a  northern  seaport.  A  saying  as  old  as  its 
foolish  founder's  grave  credits  the  city  with  three 
month's  inviemo  and  nine  months'  infiemo,  a  char- 
acterization that  loses  much  in  symmetry,  though 
gaining,  perhaps,  in  force  by  translation.  It  was 
my  fortune  to  have  happened  into  the  place  when 
the  lowest  circle  of  the  latter  region  was  having  its 
inning. 

Wherefore  I  went  often  to  the  Prado ;  and  came  as 
often  away  more  physically  fatigued  than  after  a 
four-hour  watch  in  a  stokehole,  and  with  my  head 
in  a  bewildered  whirl  that  even  a  long  stroll  in  the 
Buen  Retiro  only  partly  reduced.  It  is  like  the 
irrationality  of  man  to  bring  together  these  thous- 
ands of  masterpieces,  so  close  together  that  not 
one  of  them  can  produce  a  tenth  of  its  proper  effect. 
Of  the  pictures  in  the  Prado  the  seeing  alone  would 
require  two  years  of  continuous  work,  the  attempt  t& 


176      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

describe,  a  lifetime;  pictures  running  through  all 
the  gamut  of  art  from  the  fading  of  the  pre-Ra- 
phaelites  down  to  Goya,  that  plain-spoken  Goya  who 
seems  to  have  stood  afar  off  and  thrown  paint  by 
the  bucketful  at  his  canvas  —  with  marvelous  re- 
sults. A  pandemonium  of  paintings,  not  one  of 
which  but  off  by  itself  would  bring  daily  inspiration 
to  all  beholders.  It  is  the  tendency  of  all  things  to 
crowd  together  —  wealth,  art,  learning,  work,  leisure, 
poverty;  man's  duty  to  combat  this  tendency  by 
working  for  a  sane  and  equitable  distribution.  The 
Prado  collection  would  be  a  treasure,  indeed,  had 
those  who  exerted  themselves  to  bring  these  paintings 
together  given  half  that  exertion  to  spreading  them 
out.  Then  it  might  be  that  in  a  land  as  rich  with 
art  as  Spain  one  would  not  find  daubs  and  beer- 
calendars  hung  in  the  place  of  honor  in  the  homes 
and  fondas  of  "the  masses."  When  the  good  day 
comes  that  the  accumulation  of  the  Prado  is  dis- 
persed I  shall  bespeak  as  my  share  the  "  Borrachos  " 
or  "  Vulcan's  Forge  "  of  sturdy  Velazquez. 

Those  who  are  curious  may  also  visit,  at  sea- 
sons and  with  permissions,  the  unpleasing  royal 
palace,  about  the  outer  walls  of  which  sleep  scores 
of  fly-proof  vagrants  in  the  shade  of  half  leafless 
trees,  and  sundry  other  government  buildings,  all  of 
which  —  except  the  vagrants  —  are  duly  and  fully 
described  in  the  guide-books.  There  is,  too,  the  daily 
Juego  de  Pelotay  imported  from  the  Basque  prov- 


g  fl  t    IV*  i 


-_J 


1X1 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHELIPS  177 

inces,  a  sort  of  enlarged  handball  played  in  a  slate- 
walled  chamber  in  which  the  screaming  of  gamblers 
for  bids  and  their  insults  to  the  players  know  no  ces- 
sation. Wandering  aimlessly  through  her  streets,  as 
the  sojourner  in  Madrid  must  who  cannot  daily  sleep 
the  day  through,  I  found  myself  often  pausing  to 
admire  the  splendid  displays  in  the  windows  of  her 
tailors.  Spain  has  no  wool  schedule,  and  as  I  gazed 
a  deep  regret  came  over  me  that  I  could  not  always 
be  a  dweller  in  Madrid  when  my  garb  grows  thread- 
bare or  a  tailor  bill  falls  due.  But  there  was  sure 
remedy  for  such  melancholy.  When  it  grew  acute 
I  had  but  to  turn  and  note  the  fitting  of  these 
splendid  fabrics  on  the  passer-by,  and  the  sadness 
changed  to  a  wonder  that  the  madrileno  tailor  has 
the  audacity  to  charge  at  all  for  his  services. 

So  bare  and  uninviting  are  her  environs  —  and  she 
has  no  suburbs  —  that  Madrid  never  retires  out- 
wardly as  other  cities  for  her  picnics  and  holidays, 
but  crowds  more  closely  together  in  the  Buen  Retiro. 
The  congestion  is  greatest  about  the  Estanque 
Grande.  The  largest  body  of  water  the  normal 
madrileno  ever  sees  is  this  artificial  pond  of  about  the 
area  —  though  not  the  depth  —  of  a  college  swim- 
ming-pool. On  it  are  marooned  a  few  venerable 
rowboats,  for  a  ride  in  which  most  of  the  residents  of 
Madrid  have  been  politely  quarreling  every  fair  day 
since  they  reached  a  quarrelsome  age.  Small  wonder 
dwellers  in  the  capital  cry  out  in  horror  at  the  idea 


178      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

of  drinking  water.  One  might  as  sanely  talk  of 
burning  wood  for  fuel. 

Obviously  no  untraveled  native  of  *'  las  Cortes " 
has  more  than  a  vague  conception  of  the  sea.  In- 
deed, the  ignorance  on  this  point  is  nothing  short 
of  pathetic,  if  one  may  judge  from  the  popular  sea 
novel  that  fell  into  my  hands  during  my  stay.  The 
writer  evidently  dwelt  in  the  usual  hotbox  that  consti- 
tutes a  Madrid  lodging  and  had  not  the  remotest, 
wildest  notion  what  thing  a  sea  may  be,  nor  the 
ability  to  tell  a  mainsail  from  a  missionary's  mule. 
But  he  was  a  clever  man  —  to  have  concocted  such  a 
yam  and  escaped  persecution. 

Madrid,  however,  like  all  urban  Spain,  comes 
thoroughly  to  life  only  with  the  fall  of  night.  Oc- 
casionally a  special  celebration  carries  her  populace 
to  some  strange  comer  of  the  city,  but  the  fixed 
rendezvous  is  the  Paseo  de  Recoletos,  a  broader  Ala- 
meda where  reigns  by  day  an  un-Spanish  opulence 
of  shade  enjoyed  only  by  the  chairs  stacked  house- 
high  beneath  the  trees.  There  is  nothing  hurried 
about  the  congregating.  Dinner  leisurely  finished, 
the  madrileno  of  high  or  low  degree  begins  to  drift 
slowly  thither.  By  nine  the  public  benches  are  taken ; 
by  ten  one  can  and  must  move  only  with  the  throng 
at  the  accepted  pace,  or  pay  a  copper  to  sit  in 
haughty  state  in  one  of  the  now  unstacked  chairs. 
Toward  ten-thirty  a  military  band  straggles  in  from 
the  four  points  of  the  compass,  finishes  its  cigarette, 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  179 

languidly  unlimbers  its  instruments,  and  near  eleven 
falls  to  work  —  or  play.  About  the  same  time  there 
come  wandering  through  the  trees,  as  if  drawn  here 
by  merest  chance,  five  threadbare  blind  men,  each 
with  a  battered  violin  or  horn  tucked  tenderly  under 
one  arm.  During  the  opening  number  they  listen  at- 
tentively, in  silence,  after  the  manner  of  musicians. 
Then  as  the  official  players  pause  to  roll  new  ciga- 
rettes the  sightless  ragamuffins  take  their  stand  near 
at  hand  and  strike  up  a  music  that  more  than  one 
city  of  the  western  world  could  do  worse  than  sub- 
sidize. Thereafter  melody  is  incessant;  and  with  it 
the  murmur  of  countless  voices,  the  scrape  of  leisurely 
feet  on  the  gravel,  the  cries  of  the  hawkers  of  all 
that  may  by  any  chance  be  sought,  and  louder  and 
more  insistent  than  all  else  the  baying  of  newsboys  — 
a^ed  forty  to  sixty  and  of  both  sexes  — "  El  Pais!  " 
**  El  Heraldo!  "  **  La  Cor-r-respondenciora-a-a!  " 

Midnight!  Why,  midnight  is  only  late  in  the 
afternoon  in  Madrid.  The  concert  does  not  end  until 
three  and  half  the  babies  of  the  city  are  playing  in 
the  sand  along  the  Paseo  de  Recoletos  when  the  musi- 
cians leave.  Besides,  what  else  is  to  be  done.''  Even 
did  one  feel  the  slightest  desire  to  turn  in  there  is 
not  the  remotest  possibility  of  finding  one's  room 
less  than  a  sweatbox.  The  populace  shows  little 
inclination  to  disperse,  and  though  many  saunter  un- 
willingly homeward  for  form's  sake,  it  is  not  to 
sleep,  for  one  may  still  hear  chatting  and  the  miiffled 


180      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

twang  of  guitars  behind  the  blinds  of  the  open  win- 
dows. As  for  myself,  I  drifted  commonly  after  the 
concert  into  the  '*  Circo  Americano  "  or  a  zarzuela, 
though  such  entertainments  demonstrated  nothing  ex- 
cept how  easily  the  madrileno  is  amused.  Yet  even 
these  close  early  —  for  Madrid ;  and  rambling  gradu- 
ally into  my  adopted  section,  it  was  usually  my  for- 
tune to  run  across  a  *'  friend  of  the  house  " —  of 
whom  more  anon  —  to  retire  with  him  to  the  nearest 
Juego  de  Biliary  or  billiard-hall,  there  to  play  the 
night  gray-headed. 

The  doors  of  Madrid  close  at  midnight,  and  neither 
the  madrileno  nor  his  guests  have  yet  reached  that 
stage  of  civilization  where  they  can  be  entrusted  with 
their  own  latch-key.  But  it  is  easy  for  all  that  to 
gain  admittance.  One  has  only  to  halt  before  one's 
door,  clap  one's  hands  soundly  three  or  six  or  nine 
or  fifteen  times,  bawl  in  one's  most  musical  and  top- 
most voice,  "  Ser-r-r-r-reno !  "  not  forgetting  to  roll 
the  r  like  the  whir  of  a  broken  emery-wheel,  and 
then  sit  calmly  down  on  the  curb  and  wait.  Within 
a  half -hour,  or  an  hour  at  most,  the  watchman  is 
almost  sure  to  appear,  rattling  with  gigantic  keys, 
carrying  staff  and  lantern,  and  greeting  the  exile 
with  all  the  compliments  of  the  Spanish  season,  un- 
locks, furnishes  him  a  lighted  wax  taper,  wishes  him 
a  "  good  night "  and  a  long  day's  sleep,  and  grace- 
fully pockets  his  two-cent  fee. 

Theoretically  the  sereno  is  supposed  to  keep  order 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  i81 

—  or  at  least  orderly.  But  nothing  is  more  noted 
for  its  absence  in  Madrid  by  night  than  order.  The 
sereno  of  the  calle  San  Bernardo  showed  great  liking 
for  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  our  casa  d« 
huespedes  —  after  I  had  been  admitted.  Rare  the 
night  —  that  is,  morning  —  that  he  did  not  sit  down 
beneath  my  window  —  for  my  promotion  to  the  third- 
floor  back  was  postponed  until  I  left  the  city  —  with  a 
pair  of  hackmen  or  day-hawks  and  fall  to  rehearsing 
in  a  foghorn-voice  the  story  of  his  noble  past. 
Twice  or  thrice  I  let  drop  a  hint  in  the  form  of  what 
water  was  in  my  pitcher.  But  the  serenos  of  Madrid 
are  imperturbable,  and  water  is  precious.  On  each 
such  occasion  the  romancer  moved  over  some  two 
feet  and  serenely  continued  his  tale  until  the  rising 
sun  sent  him  strolling  homeward. 

"  Don  Ricardo,"  of  our  German  boarders,  aspired 
to  change  from  his  stool  in  a  banking-house  to  the 
bullring.  He  had  taken  a  course  in  Madrid's  Es- 
cuela  Taurina  and  was  already  testing  his  prowess 
each  Sunday  as  a  banderillero  in  the  little  plaza  of 
Tetuan,  a  few  miles  outside  the  city.     In  consequence 

—  for  **  Ricardo "  was  a  companionable  youth  for 
all  his  ragged  Spanish  —  our  casa  de  huespedes 
became  a  rendezvous  of  lesser  lights  in  the  taurine 
world.  Two  or  three  toreros  were  sure  to  drop  in 
each  evening  before  we  had  sipped  the  last  of  our 
wine,  to  spend  an  hour  or  two  in  informal  tertulia, 
I  had  not  been  a  week  in  the  city  before  I  numbered 


182      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

among  my  acquaintances  Curdlto,  Capita  de  Car- 
mona,  Pepete,  and  Moreno  de  Alcala,  all  men  whose 
names  have  decorated  many  a  ringside  poster. 

There  appeared  one  evening  among  the  "  friends 
of  the  house  "  a  young  man  of  twenty,  of  singularly 
attractive  appearance  and  personality.  Clear-eyed, 
of  lithe  yet  muscular  frame,  and  a  spring-like 
quickness  in  every  movement,  he  was  noticeable 
above  all  for  his  modest  deportment,  having  barely 
a  touch  of  that  arrogant  self-esteem  that  is  so  fre- 
quently the  dominating  characteristic  of  the  Span- 
iard. His  speech  was  the  soft,  musical  Andalusian; 
his  conversation  quickly  demonstrated  him  a  man  of 
a  high  rate  of  intelligence. 

Such  was  Faustino  Posadas,  bullfighter,  already 
a  favorite  among  the  aficionados  of  Spain,  though  it 
is  by  no  means  often  that  a  youth  of  twenty  finds 
himself  vested  with  the  red  muleta.  Son  of  the 
spare-limbed  old  herder  who  has  been  keeper  for 
many  years  of  the  Tabladas,  or  bull  pastures,  of 
Seville,  he  had  been  familiar  with  the  animals  and 
their  ways  from  early  childhood.  At  sixteen  he  was 
already  a  banderillero.  A  famous  espada  carried 
him  in  his  caudrilla  to  Peru  and  an  accident  to  a 
fellow  torero  gave  him  the  opportunity  to  de- 
spatch his  first  two  bulls  in  the  plaza  of  Lima.  He 
returned  to  Spain  a  full-fledged  *'  novillero "  and 
was    rapidly    advancing   to   the   rank    of   graduate 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  183 

espada,  with  the  right  to  appear  before  bulls  of  any 
age. 

Once  introduced,  Posadas  appeared  often  in  the 
calle  San  Bernardo ;  much  too  often  in  fact  to  leave 
any  suspicion  that  either  his  f rendship  for  *'  Don 
Ricardo  "  or  the  charms  of  our  conversation  was  the 
chief  cause  of  his  coming.  A  very  few  days  passed 
before  it  had  become  a  fixed  and  accepted  custom 
for  him  to  set  out  toward  nine  for  the  Paseo  with 
the  radiant  daughter  of  the  house  —  though 
mother  waddled  between,  of  course,  after  the  dictates 
of  Spanish  etiquette.  Within  a  week  he  was  re- 
ceived by  the  family  on  the  footing  of  a  declared 
suitor;  and  of  his  favor  with  the  senorita  there  was 
no  room  for  doubt. 

There  was  always  a  long  hour  between  the  termina- 
tion of  supper  and  the  time  when  Madrid  began 
its  nightly  promenade,  during  which  it  was  natural 
that  our  conversation  should  touch  chiefly  upon 
affairs  of  the  ring. 

*'Don  Henrico,"  asked  Capita  one  evening — ■ 
for  I  was  known  to  the  company  as  "  Henrico 
Franco  " — "  is  it  true  that  there  are  no  bullfights 
in  your  country  ?  " 

*'iVaya  que  gente!'*  burst  out  Moreno,  when  I 
had  at  length  succeeded  in  making  dear  to  them 
our  national  objections  to  the  sport.  "  What  rub- 
bish!    What  does  it  matter  if  a  few  old  hacks  that 


184      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

would  soon  fnll  dead  of  themselves  are  killed  to 
make  sport  for  the  aficionados?  As  for  the  bull  — 
Carajo,  hombre!  You  yourself,  if  you  were  in  such 
a  rage  as  the  toro,  would  no  more  feel  the  thrust  of  a 
sword  than  the  pricking  of  a  gadfly." 

Posadas,  on  the  other  hand,  readily  grasped  the 
American  point  of  view.  He  even  admitted  that  he 
found  the  goring  of  the  horses  unpleasant  and  that 
he  would  gladly  see  that  feature  of  the  corrida 
eliminated  if  there  were  any  other  way  of  tiring 
the  bull  before  the  last  act.  But  for  the  bull  him- 
self he  professed  no  sympathy  whatever. 

*'  What  would  you  have  us  do  ?  "  he  cried  in  con- 
clusion. "  Spain  offers  nothing  else  for  a  son  of 
the  people  without  political  pull  than  to  become 
torero.  Without  that  we  must  work  as  peasants  on 
black  bread  and  a  peseta  a  day." 

*'  As  in  any  other  trade,"  I  inquired,  *'  I  suppose 
you  enter  the  ring  without  any  thought  of  danger, 
any  feeling  of  fear?  " 

*'  No,  I  don't  remember  ever  being  afraid," 
laughed  the  Sevilllan,  "though  when  Miura  fur- 
nishes the  stock  I  like  to  hear  mass  before  the  cor- 
rida." 

"  What  are  the  secrets  of  success  ?  " 

**  I  know  only  one,"  answered  Posadas,  "  and  that 
is  no  secret.  Every  move  the  bull  makes  shows 
first  in  the  whites  of  his  eyes.  Never  for  an  in- 
stant do  I  take  my  eyes  off  his.     So  it  has  been 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHH^IPS  185 

my  luck  not  to  be  once  wounded,"  he  concluded, 
making  the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"  Cogidas ! "  cried  Capita,  passing  a  hand  over 
a  dull  brown  welt  on  his  neck.  "  Caramba !  I  have 
five  of  them,  and  every  one  by  a  cursed  miura.  No, 
I  never  felt  pain,  only  a  cold  chill  that  runs  down 
to  your  very  toes.  But  afterward  —  in  the  hos- 
pital!    Carajo!" 

One  would  suppose  that  men  engaged  In  so  per- 
ilous a  calling  would  take  extreme  bodily  care  of 
themselves.  Not  a  torero  among  them,  however, 
knew  the  meaning  of  **  training "  as  the  word  is 
used  by  our  athletes.  They  drank,  smoked  —  even 
during  the  corrida  —  ate  what  and  when  they 
pleased,  and  more  commonly  spent  the  night  stroll- 
ing in  the  Paseo  with  an  *'  amiga "  or  carousing 
in  a  wineshop  than  sleeping.  Whether  it  is  a 
leaving  of  the  Moor  or  native  to  this  blear,  rocky 
land,  there  is  much  of  the  fatalist  in  the  Spaniard, 
especially  the  Andaluslan.  He  Is  by  nature  a 
gambler;  be  he  torero,  beggar,  or  senator,  he  Is 
always  ready  and  willing  to  "  take  a  chance." 

"  If  a  man  Is  marked  to  be  killed  In  the  ring  he 
will  be  killed  there,"  asserted  Pepete.  **  He  cannot 
change  his  fate  by  robbing  himself  of  the  pleasures 
of  life." 

Posadas  was  engaged  to  appear  in  the  plaza  of 
Madrid  on  the  first  Sunday  of  our  acquaintance. 
When  I  descended  to  the  street  at  three  the  city 


186      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

was  already  drifting  ringward,  a  picador  in  full 
trim  now  and  then  cantering  by  on  his  Rozinante 
< — a  sight  fully  as  exciting  to  the  populace  as  the 
circus  parade  of  our  own  land.  I  had  reached  the 
edge  of  the  Puerta  del  Sol  when  I  heard  a  "  Hola, 
amigo ! "  behind  me  and  turning,  beheld  none  other 
than  Jesus  the  Sevillian  bearing  down  upon  me  with 
outstretched  hand.  He  had  found  work  at  his  trade 
in  the  city  —  though  not  yet  a  barber  apparently. 

"  And  Gasparo  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Perdido,  senor !  Lost  again ! "  he  sighed. 
**  Perhaps  he  has  found  a  new  amiga.  But  I  much 
more  fear  he  has  fallen  into  the  fingers  of  the 
police.  Mira  V.,  senor.  In  all  the  journey  we 
have  not  been  able  once  to  hide  ourselves  on  a 
freight  train.  At  last,  senor,  in  Castillejo,  Gas- 
paro goes  mad  and  swears  he  will  ride  once  for 
nothing.  With  twenty  people  looking  on  he  climbs 
a  wagon.  A  man  shouts  *  thief ! '  and  around  the 
station  comes  running  a  guardia  civil.  I  have  not 
been  able  to  find  Gasparo  since.  Senor,  I  have 
come  to  think  it  is  not  right  to  ride  on  the  rail- 
road without  a  ticket.  Gasparo,  perhaps,  is  in 
prison.  But  we  will  meet  again  when  he  comes  out,** 
he  concluded  cheerfully,  as  I  turned  away. 

At  the  plaza  fully  twelve  thousand  were  gath- 
ered. The  corrida  was  distinguished  particularly 
for  its  clumsiness,  though  the  fighters,  while  young, 
were  not  without  reputation.     Falls  and  bruises  were 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  187 

innumerable  and  the  entire  performance  a  chapter 
of  accidents  that  kept  the  aficionados  in  an  uproar 
and  gave  no  small  amount  of  work  to  the  attendant 
surgeons.  Of  the  three  matadores,  Serenito,  a 
hulking  fellow  whose  place  seemed  last  of  all  in 
the  bullring,  was  gored  across  the  loins  by  his  first 
bull  and  forced  to  abandon  his  task  and  fee  to  the 
sobresaliente.  Then  Platerito  — "  Silver-plated  "— 
a  mere  whisp  of  a  man,  having  dedicated  to  the  popu- 
lace as  is  the  custom  in  Madrid  the  death  of  the  fifth 
bull,  gasconaded  up  to  the  animal,  fell  immediately 
foul  of  a  horn,  whirled  about  like  a  rag  caught  on 
a  fly-wheel,  and  landed  on  his  shoulders  fully  sixty 
feet  away.  To  the  astonishment  even  of  the  aficiona- 
dos he  sprang  to  his  feet  as  jaunty  as  ever  and  duly 
despatched  the  animal,  though  not  over  handily. 

The  misfortunes  of  his  fellows  served  to  bring  out 
by  contrast  the  skill  of  Posadas.  Not  only  did  he 
pass  the  day  unscathed,  but  killed  both  his  bulls  at 
the  first  thrust  so  instantly  that  the  thud  of  their  fall 
might  be  heard  outside  the  plaza,  how  rare  a  feat 
only  he  knows  who  has  watched  the  hacking  and 
butchering  of  many  a  "  novillero."  Indeed,  so 
pleasing  was  his  work  that  he  was  at  once  engaged, 
contrary  to  all  precedent,  to  appear  again  on  the 
ensuing  Sunday. 

By  that  time  I  had  learned  enough  of  the  "  fine 
points  of  the  game  "  to  recognize  that  the  Sevillian 
was    approaching    already    true    matador    "  form," 


188      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

fend  as  I  took  leave  of  him  next  day  it  was  with 
the  conviction  that  success  in  his  chosen  career 
was  as  sure  as  the  certainty  of  soon  winning  his 
most  cherished  reward. 

"Vaya,  Don  Henrico,"  he  laughed  as  we  shook 
hands.  "  We  shall  see  each  other  again.  Some 
day  when  I  go  to  Mexico  or  the  Americas  of  the 
south  I  shall  come  by  New  York  and  you  shall  show 
me  all  you  have  told  us  of." 

There  are  few  countries  in  which  it  is  more  diflBcult 
to  lay  out  an  itinerary  that  will  take  in  the 
principal  points  of  interest  without  often  dou- 
bling on  one's  track  than  Spain.  By  dint  of 
long  calculation  and  nice  adjustment  of  details  I 
sketched  a  labyrinthian  route  that  my  kilometer- 
book,  together  with  what  walking  I  should  have  time 
for,  would  cover.  As  for  my  check-book  there  was 
left  exactly  three  pesetas  a  day  for  the  remainder 
of  my  time  in  the  peninsula. 

So  one  cloudy  morning  in  early  August  I  took 
train  at  the  Estacion  del  Norte  and  wound  away 
upward  through  the  gorges  of  the  Guardarrama  to 
Segovia.  Only  there  did  I  realize  that  the  rumble 
of  Madrid  had  been  absolutely  incessant  in  my  ears ; 
the  stillness  of  the  ancient  city  was  almost  oppressive, 
even  more  than  in  Toledo  one  felt  peculiarly  out 
of  the  world  and  a  sensation  that  he  must  not  remain 
too  long  lest  he  be  wholly  forgotten  and  lose  his 
jplace  in  life's  procession. 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHH^H^S  189 

In  the  morning  I  set  off  by  the  highway  that 
follows  for  some  miles  the  great  unmortared  aque- 
duct, that  chief  feature  of  Segovia,  a  thing  indeed 
far  greater  than  the  town,  as  if  a  man's  gullet,  or 
his  thirst  should  be  larger  than  himself,  so  difficult 
is  it  for  a  city  to  obtain  water  in  this  thirsty 
land.  Where  the  road  abandoned  the  moniunent  it 
continued  across  a  country  brown  and  sear,  with 
almost  the  aspect  of  an  American  meadow  in 
autumn,  steadily  rising  all  but  imperceptibly. 
Well  on  in  the  morning  I  entered  a  forest,  at  a 
side  road  of  which  I  was  joined  by  two  guardias 
civiles,  who  marched  for  an  hour  with  me  exchang- 
ing information  and  marveling  that  I  had  wan- 
dered so  far  afield.  It  has  been  my  lot  to  become 
well,  nay,  intimately  acquainted  with  the  police  of 
many  lands,  and  I  know  of  none  that,  as  a  body, 
Are  more  nearly  what  police  should  be  than  these 
civil  guards  of  Spain,  to  whom  is  due  the  sup- 
pression of  aU  the  old  picturesque  insecurities  of  the 
road.  They  have  neither  the  bully-ism  of  our  own 
club-wielders  nor  the  childishness  of  Asiatic  officers. 
Except  in  blistering  Bailen  the  bearing  of  every 
paif  I  met  —  they  never  travel  singly  —  was  such 
as  to  win  at  once  the  confidence  of  the  stranger 
and  to  draw  out  of  him  such  facts  as  it  is  their 
duty  to  learn  so  naturally  that  it  seemed  but  a 
mutual  exchange  of  politenesses.  There  are,  no 
doubt,  ^etty  corruptions  in  so  large  a  body,  but  in 


190      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

the  presence  of  almost  any  of  them  one  has  a  convic- 
tion that  their  first  thought  is  their  duty. 

The  highway  ended  its  climb  at  noon  in  La  Gran j  a 
—  The  Grange  —  residence  of  the  king  in  spring 
and  autumn,  a  town  little  Spanish  in  aspect 
seated  in  a  carefully  cropped  forest  at  the  base  of 
a  thickly  wooded  mountain.  I  roamed  unchal- 
lenged for  half  the  afternoon  through  the  royal 
park,  replete  with  fountains  compared  with  which 
those  of  Versailles  are  mere  water-squirts;  play- 
things that  Philip  the  half-mad  accused  of  cost- 
ing three  million  and  amusing  him  three  minutes, 
I  was  more  fortunate,  for  they  cost  me  nothing  and 
amused  me  fully  half  an  hour. 

After  which  I  picked  up  the  highway  again  and, 
winding  around  the  regal  village,  struck  upward  into 
the  mountains  of  Guardarrama.  At  the  hamlet 
of  Valsain  I  had  just  paused  at  the  public  spring 
when  the  third  or  fourth  tramp  I  had  seen  on  the 
road  in  all  Spain  swung  around  a  bend  ahead,  march- 
ing doggedly  northward.  As  I  stooped  to  drink, 
a  moan  and  a  thud  sounded  behind  me.  I  turned 
quickly  around  to  behold  the  roadster  writhing  in 
the  middle  of  the  highway,  the  gravel  of  which  had 
cut  and  gashed  one  side  of  his  face.  The  simple 
villagers,  swarming  wide-eyed  out  of  their  houses, 
would  have  it  at  first  that  he  was  my  companion  and 
I  to  blame  for  his  mishap.  He  bore  patent  signs 
of  months  on  the  road,  being  burned  a  tawny  brown 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  191 

in  garb  and  face  by  the  sun  that  was  evidently  the 
author  of  his  misfortune.  For  a  time  the  village 
stood  open-mouthed  about  him,  the  brawny  house- 
wives now  and  then  giving  vent  to  their  sympathy 
and  helpless  perplexity  by  a  long-drawn  "  ay  de 
mi ! "  I  suggested  water,  and  a  dozen  women, 
dashing  away  with  the  agility  of  middle-aged  cows, 
brought  it  in  such  abundance  that  the  victim  was 
all  but  drenched  to  the  skin  before  I  could  drive 
them  off.  He  revived  a  bit  and  while  a  woman 
clumsily  washed  the  blood  and  gravel  from  his  face, 
I  addressed  him  in  all  the  languages  I  could  muster, 
for  he  was  evidently  no  Spaniard.  The  only  re- 
sponse was  a  few  inarticulate  groans,  and  when  he 
had  been  carried  to  a  grassy  slope  in  the  shade, 
I  went  on,  knowing  him  in  kind  if  awkward 
hands. 

A  half-perpendicular  hour  passed  by,  and  I 
seemed  to  have  left  Spain  behind.  The  road  was 
toiling  sharply  upward  through  deep  forests  of 
evergreen,  cool  as  an  Alpine  valley,  opening  now 
and  then  to  offer  a  vista  of  thick  treetops  and  a 
glimpse  of  red-tiled  villages;  a  scene  as  different 
from  sterile,  colorless,  sunken-cheeked  Castille  as 
could  well  be  imagined.  Nor  did  the  dusk  descend 
so  swiftly  in  these  upper  heights.  The  sun  had 
set  when  I  reached  the  summit  at  six  thousand  feet 
and,  passing  through  the  Puerto  de  Navacerrada, 
started  swiftly  downward  in  the  thickening  gloom; 


192      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

but  it  was  some  time  before  the  night  had  settled 
down  in  earnest. 

I  had  marched  well  into  it  when  I  was  suddenly 
startled  bj  a  sound  of  muffled  voices  out  of  the 
darkness  ahead.  I  moved  forward  noiselessly,  for 
this  lonely  pass  has  many  a  story  to  tell.  A  dim 
lirrhi  shone  through  what  appeared  to  be  a  window. 
I  shouted  for  admittance  and  a  moment  later  found 
myself  in  the  hovel  of  a  peon  caminero. 

Within,  besides  the  family,  were  two  educated 
Spaniards,  one  indeed  who  had  been  a  secretary  in 
the  American  Legation  up  to  the  outbreak  of  the 
recent  war.  When  he  had  been  apprised  of  my 
mode  of  travel  and  my  goal,  he  stared  wonderingly 
at  me  for  a  moment  and  then  stepped  out  with  me 
into  the  night.  Marching  a  few  paces  down  the 
highway  until  we  had  rounded  some  obstruction,  he 
pointed  away  into  the  void. 

"  Do  you  see  those  lights  ?  "  he  asked. 

Far  away  and  to  the  right,  so  far  and  so  high 
in  the  heavens  that  they  seemed  constellations, 
twinkled  three  clusters  of  lights,  almost  in  a  row 
but  far  separated  one  from  another. 

"  The  third  and  farthest,"  said  my  companion, 
**  is  El  Escorial ;  and  your  time  is  well-chosen,  for 
to-morrow  is  the  day  of  Saint  Lawrence,  her  patron 
saint." 

We  returned  to  the  hut,  where  the  wife  of  the  peon 
was  moved  to  cook  me  a  bowl  of  garbanzos  and 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHH^IPS  193 

spread  me  a  blanket  on  the  stone  floor.  In  the 
morning  the  sharply  descending  highway  carried  me 
quickly  down  the  mountain,  and  by  sunrise  I  was 
back  once  more  in  the  familiar  Castille.  It  was 
verging  on  noon  when,  surmounting  a  sterile  rise, 
I  caught  sight  of  the  dome  and  towers  of  the 
EscoriaL  A  roadside  stream,  of  which  the  water  was 
lukewarm,  removed  the  grim  of  travel,  and  I 
climbed  sweltering  into  the  village  of  Escorial  de 
Arriba,  pitched  on  a  jagged  shoulder  of  the  calcined 
mountain  high  above  the  monastery. 

Spain  is  wont  to  show  her  originality  and  indiffer- 
ence to  the  convenience  of  travelers,  and  on  this,  the 
anniversary  of  the  grilling  of  him  in  whose  honoi* 
it  was  built,  the  great  monastery  was  closed  for  the 
only  time  during  the  year.  I  experienced  no  regret, 
however,  for  the  vast  gloomy  structure  against  its 
background  of  barren,  rocky  hills  had  far  too  much 
the  aspect  of  some  dank  prison  to  awaken  any  desire 
to  enter.  Least  impressive  of  famous  buildings,  the 
Escorial  is  certainly  the  most  oppressive.  There 
is  poetry,  inspiration  in  many  a  building,  in  the  Taj 
Mahal,  the  Cathedral  of  Cologne;  but  not  in  the 
Escorial.  It  suggests  some  frowning,  bulky 
bourgeois  of  forty  whose  mother  thinks  him  and  who 
would  fain  believe  himself  one  of  the  most  poetic 
and  spiritual  of  men. 

I  wandered  away  the  day  in  the  town,  drifting 
in  the  afternoon  down  into  the  village  "  de  Abajo." 

IS 


194      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

There,  in  the  multitude  about  the  stone-pile  of  a 
bullring,  I  ran  across  Curdito  in  festive  garb.  He 
was  scheduled  to  kill  all  three  bulls  of  the  day's 
corrida,  but  in  spite  of  his  urgent  invitation  I  felt 
in  no  mood  to  sit  out  the  blistering  afternoon  on 
a  bare  stone  slab  of  this  rough-and-tumble  plaza. 

El  Escorial  was  so  overrun  with  visitors  to  her 
annual  celebration  that  not  a  lodging  of  any  sort 
was  to  be  had  in  either  the  upper  or  the  lower 
village.  The  discovery  brought  me  no  shock,  for 
a  night  out  of  doors  I  neither  dreaded  nor  re- 
gretted. But  as  I  sauntered  at  dusk  down  past  the 
great  building  into  the  flanking  "  woods  of 
Herrera,"  I  could  not  but  wonder  how  those  trav- 
elers who  bewail  the  accommodations  of  the  "  only 
possible  hotel "  would  have  met  the  situation. 

Behind  the  monastery  extends  a  broad,  silent 
forest,  not  over  thick,  and  beneath  the  trees  squat 
bushes  and  brown  heather.  I  spread  the  day's  copy 
of  the  Heraldo  between  two  shrubs  and,  stretching 
out  at  my  ease,  fell  to  munching  the  lunch  I  had 
bought  in  the  village  market.  Let  the  circum- 
stances be  right  and  I  know  few  more  genuine  joys 
than  to  sleep  the  night  out  of  doors.  Lie  down  in 
the  open  while  a  bit  of  daylight  still  lingers,  or 
awaken  there  when  the  dawn  has  come,  and  there  is  a 
feeling  of  sordidness,  mixed  with  the  ludicrous,  a 
sense  of  being  an  outcast  prone  on  the  common 
earth.     But  while  the  night,  obscuring  all  details, 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHH^IPS  195 

hangs  its  canopy  over  the  world  there  are  few  situr- 
ations  more  pleasing. 

When  I  had  listened  a  while  to  the  panting  of  the 
August  night  I  fell  asleep.  For  weeks  past  I  had 
been  viewing  too  many  famous  spots,  perhaps,  had 
been  delving  too  constantly  into  the  story  of  Spain, 
My  constant  use  of  Castilian,  too,  had  borne  fruit; 
English  words  no  longer  intruded  even  on  my  inner 
meditations.  Was  it  possible  also  that  the  market 
lunch  had  been  too  heavy,  or  the  nearness  of  the 
gloomy  monastery  too  oppressive?  At  any  rate 
I  fell  to  dreaming. 

At  first  there  passed  a  procession  of  all  Spain, 
—  arrieros,  peasants,  Andalusian  maidens,  toreros, 
priests,  Jesus  the  tramp,  a  chanting  water-seller, 
merchants  and  beggars;  close  followed  by  two 
guardias  civiles  who  looked  at  me  intently  as  they 
passed.  Then  suddenly  in  their  place  Moors  of 
every  garb  and  size  were  dancing  about  me.  They] 
seemed  to  be  celebrating  a  victory  and  to  be  pre- 
paring for  some  Mohammedan  sacrifice.  A  mullah 
advanced  upon  me,  clutching  a  knife.  I  started  to 
my  feet,  a  distant  bell  boomed  heavily,  and  the 
throng  vanished  like  a  pujff  of  smoke. 

Away  ofi'  above,  in  a  hollow  in  the  gaunt  moun- 
tain, I  made  out  gradually  the  form  of  a  man 
sitting  pensive,  elbows  on  knees,  gazing  dark- 
browed  down  upon  me.  He  was  in  royal  robes,  and 
all   at   once   he   seemed  to    start,   to   grow   in    size, 


196      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 


and  a  line  across  his  breast  expanded  to  the  letters 
"Felipe  II."  Larger  and  larger  he  grew  until  he 
overtowered  the  mountain  itself;  then  slowly, 
scowlingly  he  rose  and  strode  down  upon  me.  A 
women  joined  him,  a  scrawny  woman  who  laid  a 
hand  inertly  in  his,  and  I  recognized  Bloody  Mary, 
who  seemed  thus  in  an  instant  to  have  leaped  over 
the  seas  from  her  island  kingdom  to  join  her  gloomy 
husband. 

In  rapid  succession  new  figures  appeared, — 
Herrera  first,  a  torpid,  lugubrious  man  strangely 
like  the  building  he  has  left  behind;  then  quickly 
a  multitude,  through  which  strolled  a  man  whose 
crown  bore  the  name  *'  Pedro,"  running  his  sword 
with  a  chuckle  of  deviUsh  laughter  through  any 
that  came  within  easy  reach,  young  or  old,  asleep 
or  awake.  Of  a  sudden  there  stalked  forth  from 
nowhere  a  lean,  deep-eyed  man  of  fifty,  a  huge 
parchment  volume  under  one  arm,  an  almost  cyni- 
cal, yet  indulgent  smile  on  his  countenance;  and 
as  if  to  prove  who  he  was  there  raced  down  over 
the  mountain  a  man  not  unlike  him  in  appearance, 
astride  a  caricature  of  a  horse,  and  behind  him  a 
dumpy,  wondering  peasant  ambling  on  an  ass.  The 
cavalier  sprang  suddenly  from  his  hack  and  fell 
affectionately  on  the  shoulder  of  the  parchment- 
bearer,  then  bounding  back  into  the  saddle  he 
charged  straight  for  Felipe,  who,  stepping  to  one 


SHADOWS  OF  THE  PHILIPS  197 

side,  flung,  backhanded,  Mary  his  wife  far  out  of 
sight  over  the  mountain. 

A  sound  drew  my  attention  to  another  side. 
Across  the  plain  was  marching  with  stately  tread 
a  long  file  of  Moors,  each  carrying  in  one  hand  his 
head,  by  the  hair. 

"Los  Abencerrajes!"  I  seemed  to  shout;  and 
almost  before  it  was  uttered  there  remained  only 
Felipe  and  behind  him  a  score  of  indistinct  forms. 
He  waved  a  hand  toward  me  and  turned  his  back, 
and  the  company  moved  down  upon  me  unlimbering 
a  hundred  instruments  of  torture.  Distant  bells  were 
tolling  mournfully.  A  priest  advanced  holding 
aloft  a  crucifix  and  chanting  in  sepulchral  voice : 

**  The  hour  of  heretics  sounds.*' 

Louder  and  funereally  rang  the  dismal  bells;  the 
torturers  drew  near ;  I  struggled  to  rise  to  my  feet  — 
and  awoke. 

The  bells  of  the  monastery  were  booming  out 
over  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XI 

CRUMBLING    CITIES 

IT  was  well  along  in  the  next  afternoon  that  I 
descended  at  the  station  of  Avila  and  climbed 
a  long  dusty  mile  into  the  city.  A  scent  of  the  dim, 
half-forgotten  past  hovered  over  the  close-walled, 
peculiarly  garbed  place.  When  I  had  made  a  cir- 
cuit of  her  ancient  wall,  through  which  her  no 
less  time-worn  cathedral  thrusts  its  hips,  I  drifted 
down  into  the  dusty  vega  below,  where  in  the  church 
of  Santo  Tomas  sleeps  the  dead  hope  of  *'  los  reyeg 
catolicos."  If  the  sculptor  be  trustworthy  the 
prince  would  have  been  an  intelligent,  kindly  lad, 
even  though  his  martial  valor  might  never  have 
rivaled  that  of  his  stout-hearted  mother.  Returned 
to  the  city,  I  strolled  for  an  hour  along  the  lofty 
Paseo  del  Rastro,  watching  the  sun  sink  red  behind 
the  serrated  jumble  of  mountains  on  the  far  western 
horizon,  beyond  which  lay  my  next  stopping-place; 
and  so  to  bed  in  the  Posada  de  la  Estrella  amid  the 
munching  asses  and  snoring  arrieros. 

Avila  is  connected  with  Salamanca  by  rail,  but  the 
route  forms  a  sharp  angle  with  its  apex  many  miles 

1S8 


CRUMBLING  CITIES  199 

to  the  north.  I  had  decided,  therefore,  to  walk. 
Swinging  down  through  the  western  city  gate  and 
across  the  babbling  Adaja  by  the  aged  stone 
bridge,  I  clambered  again  upward  to  where  a  huge 
stone  cross  invites  to  a  rest  in  its  shade  and  a  final 
retrospect  of  crumbling  Avila  and  her  many-tur- 
reted,  constraining  wall.  An  easy  two-days'  walk 
lay  before  me.  For  had  not  Herr  Baedeker,  so 
seldom  in  error  as  to  plain  facts,  announced  the 
distance  as  thirty-five  miles? 

As  I  wended  on  up  the  hillside,  however,  I  was 
suddenly  stricken  profane  by  a  stone  sign-post 
rising  before  me  with  the  dismal  greeting: 

*'  Salamanca  99  kilometros." 

Herr  Baedeker  was  wrong  by  a  little  matter  of 
thirty  miles. 

But  I  had  set  the  time  of  my  entrance  into 
Salamanca ;  delay  would  bring  havoc  to  my  delicately 
adjusted  itinerary.     I  doubled  my  pace. 

The  way  led  through  a  country  as  savage  of 
aspect  as  any  in  Spain,  waterless,  dusty,  glaring, 
overspread  with  huge  rocks  tumbled  pell-mell  as  if 
the  Mason  of  the  universe  had  thrown  here  the 
materials  left  over  from  His  building.  By  after- 
noon a  few  lean  farms  began  to  crowd  their  way 
in  between  the  rocks,  now  and  then  a  sturdy,  thick- 
set tree  found  place,  and  over  all  nature  hovered 
great  clouds  of  locusts  whose  refrain  reminded  how 


200      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

euphonious  is  the  Spaniard's  name  for  what  we  club 
"  dog  days," — "  canta  la  chicharra  —  the  locust 
sings."  The  inhabitants  of  the  region  seemed 
somewhat  more  in  fortune's  favor  than  the  rest 
of  the  peninsula.  Passing  peasants,  though  rare, 
had  none  a  hungry  look;  their  carts  were  fanci- 
fully carved  and  painted  both  on  body  and  wheels, 
while  the  trappings  of  their  cattle  were  decorative 
in  the  extreme. 

All  a  summer  day  I  tramped  forward  over  hill 
and  hollow  toward  the  great  jagged  range,  the 
hardy  trees  dying  out,  the  fields  growing  in  size  and 
number,  but  the  sierra  seeming  to  hold  ever  as  far 
aloof.  Beyond  a  small  withered  forest  in  which 
were  roaming  flocks  of  brown  goats,  I  climbed  a 
steady  five  miles  to  a  summit  village  exhibiting  every 
outward  sign  of  poverty  and  most  fittingly  named 
**  Salvadios  —  God  save  us."  The  keeper  of  its 
one  quasi-public  house  deigned  after  long  argu- 
ment to  set  before  me  a  lame  excuse  for  supper,  but 
loudly  declined  to  furnish  lodging.  I  withdrew, 
therefore,  to  a  threshing-floor  across  the  way, 
heaped  high  with  still  unbroken  bundles  of  wheat, 
and  put  in  a  shiveringly  cold  night  —  so  great  is 
the  contrast  between  the  seething  plains  by  day  and 
this  hilltop  bitten  by  every  wind  —  not  once  falling 
into  a  sound  sleep  for  the  gaunt,  savage  curs  that 
prowled  about  me. 

At  dawn  I   was  already   afoot  and  three  hours 


CRUMBLING  CITIES  £01 

later  entered  the  city  of  Penaranda,  in  the  out- 
skirts of  which  a  fine  plaza  de  toros  was  building, 
but  within  all  the  confines  of  which  was  no  evidence 
of  school,  library,  nor  indeed  of  restaurant.  I 
contented  myself  with  a  bit  of  fruit  and  trudged  on. 
This  may  not,  perhaps,  have  been  the  hottest  day 
of  all  that  Spanish  summer,  but  it  bore  certainly  all 
the  earmarks  thereof.  The  earth  lay  cracked  and 
blistered  about  me,  the  trees  writhing  with  the  heat, 
the  rays  rising  from  the  rocky  soil  like  a  dense 
stage-curtain  of  steam.  In  a  shriveled  and  parched 
pueblo  of  mud  huts,  exactly  resembling  the  villages 
of  Palestine,  I  routed  out  a  kindly  old  woman  for 
a  foreshortened  lunch;  and  then  on  again  in  the 
inferno,  choking  fields  of  grain  and  vineyards  soon 
becoming  numerous  on  either  hand.  The  wise 
husbandmen,  however,  had  sought  refuge,  and  in  all 
the  grilling  landscape  was  not  a  human  being  to 
be  seen,  save  and  except  a  sweat-dripping  pedes- 
trian from  foreign  parts  straining  along  the 
scorching  highway. 

This  swung  at  length  to  the  right,  swooped 
down  through  a  river  that  had  not  a  drop  of  water, 
and  staggering  to  the  top  of  an  abrupt  knoll, 
showed  me  far  ofi',  yet  in  all  distinctness,  a  rich 
reddish-brown  city  gathered  together  on  a  low  hill- 
top and  terminating  in  glinting  spires.  It  was 
Salamanca;  and  of  all  the  cities  I  have  come  thus 
upon  unheralded  and  from  the  unpeopled  highway 


202      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

none  can  rival  her  in  richness  of  color,  like  ripe  old 
wine,  a  city  that  has  grown  old  gracefully  and  with 
increasing  beauty.  So  fascinating  the  sight  that 
I  sat  down  beneath  the  solitary  tree  by  the  way  to 
gaze  upon  it  —  and  to  swing  half  round  the  circuit 
of  the  shrub  as  the  sun  drove  the  scanty  shadow 
before  it. 

But  I  was  still  far  off  the  golden-brown  city  and, 
setting  slowly  onward  in  the  descending  evening,  I 
all  but  encircled  the  place  before  the  carretera, 
coming  upon  the  ancient  puente  romano,  clambered 
upward  into  its  unrivaled  Flaza  Mayor. 

Just  back  of  this,  four  stories  above  the  Plaza 
de  la  Verduga,  or  Place  of  the  Green  Stuff,  lives 
a  widow  whose  little  spare  chamber  is  let  in  the 
winter  season  to  some  unpretentious  student  of  the 
now  unpretentious  university.  I  engaged  this, 
together  with  what  of  physical  nourishment  should 
be  reasonable,  at  three  pesetas  a  day.  As  I  took 
possession,  the  daughter  of  the  hostess,  a  muchacha 
of  eight,  peered  in  upon  me  hugging  a  doll  under 
one  arm. 

"  Que  mufieea  mas  bonita ! "  I  hazarded,  whidi 
turned  out  to  be  unwise,  for  the  homage  so  over- 
came her  diffidence  that  she  came  in  not  only  to 
offer  the  information  that  my  complexion  strangely 
resembled  that  of  a  lobster  in  the  salmantino 
museum,  but  such  a  fund  of  further  information  that 
it  was  long  before  I  had  inveigled  her  outside  the 


CRUMBLING  CITIES  208 

door  and,  throwing  myself  on  the  bed,  slept  the 
clock  round. 

As  in  many  another  city  it  had  been  my  fortune 
to  reach  Salamanca  on  the  eve  of  one  of  her  great 
festivals.  Indeed,  that  must  be  a  foresighted 
traveler  who  can  journey  through  Spain  without 
being  frequently  caught  up  in  the  whirlpool  of  some 
local  fiesta.  The  excuse  this  time  was  Assumption 
Day.  The  festivities  within  the  city  walls  offered 
nothing  of  extraordinary,  being  chiefly  confined  to 
a  band  concert  in  the  central  plaza.  Richer  by  far 
would  be  the  richest  city  of  the  earth  could  she 
purchase  and  transplant  into  her  own  midst  the 
Plaza  Mayor  of  Salamanca,  with  its  small  forest 
of  palms,  the  rich  brown  medallioned  fa9ades  and 
surrounding  colonnades  beneath  which  the  sal- 
mantino  is  wont  to  stroll,  la  salmantina  on  his  arm, 
while  the  band  plays  in  the  flower-shrouded  stand 
in  its  center.  Salamanca  might  sell,  too,  in  spite 
of  her  boast  that  it  is  the  finest  in  Spain,  being 
poorer  than  the  proverbial  church  mouse,  were  she 
not  also  Spanish  and  prouder  than  she  is  poor. 

The  real  fiesta,  however,  took  the  form  of  a 
bullfight  that  had  a  character  all  its  own.  Sala- 
manca, as  I  have  hinted,  is  no  longer  a  city  of 
wealth.  Indeed,  those  occasions  are  rare  in  these 
modem  days  when  she  can  indulge  in  a  round  of 
the  national  sport,  even  though  she  possesses  one 
of  the  largest  bullrings  in   Spain.     On  this  great 


204      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

holiday,  however,  the  city  fathers  had  decided  that 
nothing  within  the  bounds  of  reason  was  too  good 
for  the  recreating  of  Salamanca's  long  unfeasted 
children.  A  full-sized  bullfight  would,  to  be  sure, 
have  far  overstepped  the  bounds  above  mentioned. 
But  after  long  debate  and  deep  investigation  it  had 
been  concluded  that  a  corrida  with  four  bulls,  no 
horses,  one  real  matador,  and  seats  of  all  shades  and 
distinctions  at  one  peseta  each  might  be  conceded. 

With  this  unlimited  choice  of  vantage-points  at 
my  own  price  I  went  out  early  to  the  plaza  and 
picked  my  place  in  the  sombra  in  what  was  evidently 
a  section  reserved  for  the  guardia  civil;  for  before 
long  the  guards,  in  full  uniform  and  their  three- 
homered  hats,  began  to  gather  about  me,  first  in 
pairs,  then  in  groups,  then  in  swarms,  until  I  was 
wholly,  shut  in  and  surrounded  by  guardias  civiles 
like  a  dandelion  in  the  center  of  a  bed  of  tulips. 
Far  from  resenting  my  intrusion,  however,  if  such 
it  was,  they  initiated  me  into  their  order  with  botas 
and  cigarettes  and  included  me  in  their  conversa- 
tion and  merriment  during  the  rest  of  the  day. 

The  entertainment  began  at  four.  With  that  ex- 
ception, however,  it  had  few  points  of  similarity 
with  the  regulation  corrida.  The  procession  en- 
tered, fully  six  men  in  torero  garb  —  though  that 
of  two  or  three  of  them  fitted  like  amateur  theatrical 
costumes  —  followed  by  two  horsemen,  two,  in 
their  shirt^sleeves,  as  was  also   senor  el  alcalde  in 


CRUMBLING  CITIES  205 

his  box.  The  key  thrown,  the  fight  began;  with 
the  elimination  of  the  one  unquestionably  un- 
pleasant feature, —  the  killing  of  horses.  Even 
aged  hacks  cost  money  and,  as  I  have  already  more 
than  once  suggested,  money  is  a  rare  conmiodity  in 
Salamanca.  When  the  bull  had  been  worried  a  bit 
with  the  cloaks,  the  banderilleros  proceeded  at  once 
to  plant  their  darts.  The  professional  matador,  a 
young  man  rejoicing  in  the  name  of  Trueno — • 
**  Thunder " —  had,  therefore,  a  far  more  difficult 
task  than  usual,  for  more  than  anything  else  it  is 
the  venting  of  his  rage  and  strength  on  the  blind- 
folded steeds  that  tires  the  bull,  and  on  this  occa- 
sion it  was  a  still  wild  and  comparatively  fresh 
animal  which  the  diestro  was  called  upon  to  face. 
He  despatched  his  three  allotted  bulls,  however, 
without  accident  and  to  the  vociferous  satisfaction 
of  the  audience,  which  filled  even  at  the  low  price 
only  a  bit  more  than  the  shaded  section.  It  was 
not,  as  the  guardia  beside  me  was  at  some  paina 
to  explain,  that  there  were  not  salmantinos  quite  suf- 
ficient to  pack  the  plaza  to  overflowing,  but  that  there 
were  not  pesetas  enough  in  town  to  go  round.  In 
the  throng,  too,  were  no  small  number  of  peasants 
from  all  the  widely  surrounding  country,  some  in 
the  old  dress  with  knee  breeches. 

But  to  touch  upon  the  unusual  features  of  the 
corrida.  As  a  part  of  the  worrying  of  the  srtjond 
bull  a  chulo  placed  a  chair  in  the  ring  and,  stand- 


206      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

ing  upon  it  with  neither  weapon  nor  cloak,  awaited 
the  charge.  When  the  bull  had  all  but  reached  him 
he  sprang  suddenly  into  the  air,  the  animal  dashed 
under  him  and,  falling  upon  the  unoffending  article 
of  furniture,  dissolved  it  thoroughly  into  its  com- 
ponent parts  and  scattered  them  broadcast  about  the 
arena. 

The  most  nerve-thrilling  performance,  however, 
that  it  was  my  privilege  to  see  in  all  the  devil-may- 
care  land  of  Spain  was  the  feat  that  followed  im- 
mediately on  the  death  of  the  chair-wrecker.  It 
was  the  "  star  attraction "  of  the  day  and  was  an- 
nounced on  the  posters  in  all  the  Spaniard's  richness 
of  superlatives  —  and  he  is  a  bom  and  instinctive 
writer  of  **  ads.'*  Clinging  as  closely  as  possible  to 
the  eloquent  phraseology  of  the  original  the  an- 
nouncement may  be  set  forth  in  near-English  as 
follows : 

"Various  are  the  chances  (tricks)  which  are 
executed  in  the  different  plazas  of  Spain  inside 
the  taurine  art,  but  none  that  has  more  called  at- 
tention than  that  which  is  practised  by  Jo8& 
iViLLAK.  son  of  the  memorable  matador  (killer, 
murderer)  of  buUs  Villarillo  who " —  not  father 
Bio,  who  has  left  off  all  earthly  sport,  but  son  Jos6 
— "  locating  himself  in  the  center  of  the  arena  and 
placed  with  the  head  towards  below  and  the  feet  by 
above  imploring  the  public  to  maintain  the  most  im- 
pressive silence  during  the  risk  (fate)  consummates 


CRUMBLING  CITIES  207 

the  trick  (chance)  of  Tancredo;  very  well,  this 
Management  not  reflecting  on  (sparing)  either  ex- 
pense or  sacrifice  has  contracted  with  him  in  order 
that  he  shall  fulfill  (lift,  puU  off;  sic.)  this  trick 
(risk)  on  the  third  bull  to  the  end  that  the  salman- 
tinos  shall  know  it,  with  which  program  this  Manage- 
ment believes  to  have  filled  to  the  full  the  desires  of 
the  aficionados  (rooters,  fans,  amateurs)." 

The  second  bull,  therefore,  having  been  ignomini- 
ously  dragged  to  oblivion  and  the  butcher-shop,  and 
the  blood  patches  of  the  arena  resanded,  there  sallied 
forth  from  the  further  gate  a  small,  athletic  man 
of  thirty-five  or  so,  hatless  —  and  partly  hairless  — 
dressed  from  head  to  foot  in  the  brightest  red,  of  a 
material  so  thin  that  the  movement  of  his  every 
muscle  could  be  plainly  seen  beneath  it.  He  was  en- 
tirely empty-handed.  He  marched  with  sprightly 
stride  across  the  ring  and,  bowing  low  to  the  alcalde 
in  his  box  above,  addressed  to  the  public  a  warning 
and  an  entreaty  to  maintain  the  utmost  silence  during 
the  **  consummation  of  the  risk."  An  assistant  then 
appeared,  carrying  a  small  wooden  box  with  a  piece  of 
gas-pipe  six  feet  long  fixed  upright  in  the  top  of  it. 
This  Villar  placed  exactly  in  the  center  of  the  ring, 
a  hundred  yards  or  more  in  every  direction  from  the 
barrier.  'Across  the  gas-pipe,  near  the  top,  he 
fastened  a  much  shorter  piece,  thus  forming  a  cross. 
On  the  box  he  placed  a  circular  roll  of  cloth,  stood  on 
his  head  thereon,  hooked  his  toes  over  the  cross-piece, 


208      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

waved  a  hand  gaily  to  the  public,  and  folded  his  arms. 
Every  other  torero  stepped  outside  the  ring,  and  the 
toril  gate  swung  open. 

A  wild  snort,  and  there  plunged  into  the  arena  as 
powerful  and  savage  a  brute  as  it  had  ever  yet  been 
my  lot  to  see.  For  an  instant  he  stood  motionless, 
blinking  in  the  blinding  sunlight.  Then  suddenly 
catching  sight  of  the  statue  flaming  with  the  hated 
color,  he  shot  away  toward  it  with  the  speed  of  an 
express-train  —  a  Spanish  express  at  least  —  until, 
a  bare  three  feet  from  it,  he  stopped  instantly 
stone-still  by  thrusting  out  his  forelegs  like  a  West- 
em  broncho,  then  slowly,  gingerly  tiptoed  up  to  the 
motionless  figure,  sniffed  at  it,  and  turned  and 
trotted  away. 

The  public  burst  forth  in  a  thunderclap  of  ap- 
plause. Villar  got  right  end  up  as  caknly  and  grace- 
fully as  a  French  count  in  a  drawing-room,  laid  a 
hand  on  his  heart,  and  smiling  serenely,  bowed  once, 

twice,  th and  just  then  a  startled  roar  went  up 

from  the  tribunes,  for  the  bull  had  suddenly  turned 
and,  espying  the  man  in  red,  dashed  at  him  with 
lowered  horns  and  a  bellow  of  anger. 

There  is  nowhere  registered,  so  far  as  my  investi- 
gations carry,  the  record  of  Jose  Villar,  son  of  Vil- 
larillo,  in  the  hundred-yard  dash.  But  this  much 
may  be  asserted  with  all  assurance,  that  it  has  in  it 
nothing  of  that  slow,  languid,  snail-like  pace  of  the 
ten-second  college  champion.     Which  was  well;  fot 


CRUMBLING  CITIES  209 

some  two  inches  below  his  flying  heels,  as  he  set  a  new 
record  likewise  in  the  vaulting  of  barriers,  the  murder- 
ous horns  crashed  into  the  oak  plank  tablas  with  the 
sound  of  a  freight  collision  and  an  earnestness  that 
gave  work  to  the  plaza  carpenters  for  some  twenty^ 
minutes  to  come. 

Therein  Villar  was  more  fortunate  than  the  Mexi- 
can Tancredo,  inventor  of  the  "  suerte,"  and  for 
whom  it  was  named.  Tancredo,  like  Dr.  Guillotin, 
was  overreached  by  his  own  invention,  for  while  his 
record  for  the  hundred  was  but  a  second  or  two  less 
than  that  of  Villar,  it  was  just  this  paltry  margin 
that  made  him,  on  the  day  next  following  his  last 
professional  appearance,  the  chief  though  passive 
actor  in  a  spectacle  of  quite  a  different  character. 

The  "  Suerte  de  Tancredo  "  has  never  won  any 
vast  amount  of  popularity  in  Spain,  except  with  the 
spectators.  Toreros  in  general  manifest  a  hesitation 
akin  to  bashfulness  in  thus  seeking  the  plaudits  of 
the  multitude.  By  reason  of  which  diffidence  among 
his  fellows,  Jose,  son  of  Villarillo,  memorable  matador 
de  toros,  pockets  after  each  such  recreation  a  sum 
that  might  not  seem  overwhelming  to  an  American 
captain  of  industry  or  to  a  world-famous  tenor,  but 
one  which  the  average  Spaniard  cannot  name  in  a 
single  breath. 

Salamanca's  day  of  amusement  did  not,  however, 
by  any  means  end  here.  Beneath  the  name  of 
**  Thunder,'*    the    professional    matador,    there    was 

X4 


210      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

printed  with  equal  bombast  that  of  Feenandoi 
MaetIn".  Now  Fernando  was  quite  evidently  a 
sahnantino  butt,  a  tall  gawky  fellow  whose  place  in 
the  society  of  Salamanca  was  apparently  very  simi- 
liar  to  that  of  those  would-be  or  has-been  baseball 
players  to  be  found  vegetating  in  many  of  our 
smaller  towns.  Like  them,  too,  Fernando  was  in  all 
probabihty  wont  to  hover  about  the  pool-rooms  and 
dispensing-parlors  of  his  native  city,  boasting  of  his 
untested  prowess  at  the  national  game.  That  his 
talents  might  not,  therefore,  forever  remain  hidden 
under  a  wineglass,  and  also,  perhaps,  because  his  serv- 
ices might  be  engaged  at  five  hundred  pesetas  less 
than  the  five  hundred  that  a  professional  sobresaliente 
would  have  demanded,  the  thoughtful  city  fathers  had 
caused  him  to  be  set  down  on  the  program,  like- 
wise in  striking  type,  as  "  substttute  with  ne- 
cessity   (con   necesidad)    to    kili.   the    fourth 

BULL." 

It  was  this  "  necesidad  "  that  worked  the  undoing 
of  Fernando  Martin.  When  the  customary  by-play 
had  been  practised  on  the  fourth  animal,  enter  Fer- 
nando with  bright  red  muleta,  false  pigtail,  glinting 
sword,  and  anything  but  the  sure-of-one's-self  coun- 
tenance of  a  professional  espada.  He  faced  the 
brute  first  directly  in  front  of  the  block  of  guardias 
civiles,  and  the  nearest  he  came  to  laying  the  animal 
low  at  the  first  thrust  was  to  impale  on  a  horn  and 
sadly  mutilate  a  sleeve  of  his  own  gay  and  rented 


CKUMBLING  CITIES  «11 

jacket.  The  crowd  jeered,  as  crowds  will  the  world 
over  at  the  sight  of  a  man  whose  father  and  mother 
and  even  grandfather  they  have  known  for  years 
trying  to  prove  himself  the  equal  of  men  imported 
from  elsewhere.  Fernando  advanced  again,  manoeu- 
vering  for  position,  though  with  a  peculiar  move- 
ment of  the  knees  not  usual  among  toreros,  and 
which  was  all  too  visible  to  every  eye  in  the  hooting 
multitude.  Trueno,  the  professional,  stuck  close  at 
his  side  in  spite  of  the  clamorous  demand  of  the 
public  that  he  leave  the  salmantino  to  play  out  his 
own  game  unhampered.  Martin  hazarded  two  or 
three  more  nerveless  thrusts,  with  no  other  damage, 
thanks  to  the  watchful  eye  and  cloak  of  Trueno,  than 
one  toss  of  ten  feet  and  a  bleeding  groin.  By  this 
time  the  jeering  of  his  fellow-townsmen  had  so  over- 
shadowed the  tyro's  modicum  of  good  sense  that  he 
turned  savagely  on  his  protector  and  ordered  him  to 
leave  the  ring.  Fortunately  Trueno  was  not  of  the 
stuff  to  take  umbrage  at  the  insults  of  a  foolish  man 
in  a  rage,  or  the  population  of  Salamanca  would  in- 
contestably  have  been  reduced  by  one  before  that 
merry  day  was  done. 

The  utmost  length  of  time  between  the  entrance  of 
a  professional  matador  for  the  last  act  and  the  death 
of  the  bull  is  four  or  five  minutes.  Fernando 
Martin  trembled  and  toiled  away  ten,  twenty,  thirty, 
forty.  Slowly,  but  certainly  and  visibly  his  bit  of 
courage  oozed  away;  the  peculiar  movement  of  his 


212      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

knees  grew  more  and  more  pronounced.  No  longer 
daring  to  meet  the  bull  face  to  face,  he  skulked  along 
the  barrier  until  the  animal's  tail  was  turned  and, 
dashing  past  him  at  full  speed,  stabbed  backward 
at  his  neck  as  he  ran,  to  the  uproarious  merriment 
of  the  spectators.  Trueno  saved  his  life  certainly 
a  score  of  times.  At  last,  when  the  farce  had  run 
close  upon  fifty  minutes,  a  signal  from  the  alcalde 
sent  across  the  arena  the  sharp  note  of  a  bugle,  two 
cabestros,  or  trained  steers  were  turned  into  the  ring, 
and  the  bull,  losing  at  once  all  belligerency,  trotted 
docilely  away  with  them.  The  star  of  Fernando 
Martin,  would-be  matador  de  toros,  was  forever  set, 
and  if  he  be  not  aU  immune  to  ridicule  his  native 
city  surely  knows  him  no  more. 

It  is  law  that  no  bull  that  has  once  entered  the 
ring  shall  live.  Curious  to  know  what  was  to  be  the 
fate  of  this  animal,  I  sprang  over  the  barrier  and 
hurried  across  to  the  gate  by  which  he  had  disap- 
peared. There  I  beheld  a  scene  that  forever  dis- 
pelled any  notion  that  the  task  of  the  matador  is  an 
easy  one,  however  simple  it  may  look  from  the  trib- 
unes. The  bull  was  threshing  to  and  fro  within  a 
small  corral,  bellowing  with  rage  and  lashing  the  air 
with  his  tail.  It  required  six  men  and  a  half -hour  of 
time  to  lasso  and  drag  him  to  the  fence.  With  a 
hundred  straining  at  the  rope  his  head  was  drawn 
down  under  the  gate,  a  man  struck  him  several  blows 
with  a  sledge,  and  another,  watching  his  opportunity, 


CRUMBLING  CITIES  213 

swung  his  great  navaja  and  laid  wide  open  the  ani- 
mal's throat. 

It  was  late  when,  having  mingled  for  some  time 
with  the  country  folk  dancing  on  the  sandy  plain 
before  the  plaza,  I  returned  to  the  city  for  my 
bundle  and  repaired  to  the  station.  A  twelve-hour 
ride  was  before  me.  For  I  had  decided  to  explore  a 
territory  where  even  the  scent  of  tourists  is  un- 
known,—  the  northwest  province  of  Galicia. 

The  train  that  I  boarded  at  eleven  was  crowded 
with  countrymen  returning  from  the  day's  festival, 
a  merry  but  in  no  sense  intoxicated  company,  in 
which  I  saw  my  first  wooden-shod  Galicians.  The 
car  was,  for  once,  of  the  American  pattern  — - 
though  of  Spanish  width  —  with  thirty  seats  each 
large  enough  for  three  persons.  The  brakeman, 
too,  who  stood  lantern  on  arm  in  the  open  door, 
bore  an  unusual  resemblance  to  an  American 
"  shack." 

A  dozen  men  were  standing  in  the  aisle,  but  to  my 
surprise  one  seat  near  the  center  of  the  car  seemed 
to  be  unoccupied.  When  I  reached  it,  however,  I 
found  a  priest  stretched  out  on  his  back,  his  hands 
clasped  over  his  paunch,  snoring  impressively.  I 
carried  a  protest  to  the  brakeman  and  with  a  snort 
he  swooped  down  upon  the  sleeper.  At  sight  of  him, 
however,  he  recoiled. 

"  Carajo !  "  he  cried.  "  Es  un  padre !  I  could  n't 
disturb  his  reverence." 


214      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

I  stooped  and  touched  the  monopolist  on  the 
shoulder,  being  in  no  mood  to  remain  standing  all 
night.  Moreover,  I  had  long  been  curious  to  know 
the  Spaniard's  attitude  toward  a  man  who  should 
treat  a  priest  as  an  ordinary  human  being.  "  His 
reverence"  grunted.  I  touched  him  again.  His 
snore  lost  a  beat  or  two  and  began  once  more.  I 
shook  him  more  forcibly.  He  opened  his  blood-shot 
eyes,  snorted  "  Huh ! "  so  much  like  a  certain  monop- 
olist of  the  animal  kingdom  that  even  the  passengers 
about  me  laughed  at  the  resemblance  —  and  fell  again 
to  snoring.  I  sat  down  gently  on  his  fat  legs  and, 
when  he  kicked  me  off,  confiscated  a  place.  He  sat 
up  with  the  look  of  a  man  whose  known  world  has 
suddenly  crumbled  about  his  ears  and  glared  at  me 
with  bulging  eyes  a  full  two  minutes,  while  over  the 
faces  of  the  onlookers  flitted  a  series  of  winks  and 
smiles. 

He  was  just  huddling  himself  up  again  in  the  two- 
thirds  of  the  seat  that  remained  to  him  when  the  door 
opened  and  Trueno,  the  matador,  his  little  coleta 
peeping  out  from  beneath  his  hat,  his  sword-case 
under  one  arm,  entered  and,  spying  the  extra  place, 
sat  down  in  it  with  scant  ceremony.  We  fell  to 
talking.  The  torero  was  a  jovial,  explosive,  devil- 
may-care  fellow  who  looked  and  dressed  his  character 
well.  The  priest  slunk  off  somewhere  in  the  thickest 
^ours  and  his  place  was  taken  by  a  peasant  who  had 
been    standing   near    me    since    leaving    Salamanca. 


/  CRUMBLING  CITIES  215 

When  he  found  opportunity  to  break  into  the  conver- 
sation he  addressed  me  with  an  amused  smile : 

"  You  are  not  then  a  Catholic,  senor?  *' 

"  No." 

"  Ah !     A  socialist ! "  he  cried  with  assurance. 

For  to  the  masses  of  southern  Europe  socialist 
and  non-Catholic  are  synonymous. 

"  I  doubt,  senor,"  I  observed,  "  whether  you  your- 
self are  a  Catholic." 

"  Como,  seiior!"  he  cried,  raising  his  hands  in  a 
comical  gesture  of  quasi-horror.  "  I,  a  cristino 
viejo,  no  Catholic!" 

*'  Do  you  go  to  church  and  do  what  your  cura 
commands  ?  " 

"  What  nonsense ! "  he  cried,  using  a  stiU  more 
forcible  term.  "  Who  does  ?  My  wife  goes  now 
and  then  to  confession.  I  go  to  church,  sefior,  to 
be  baptized,  married,  and  buried." 

"Why  go  then?" 

"  Caramba !  "  he  gasped.  "  How  else  shall  a  man 
be  buried,  married,  and  baptized?" 

Toward  morning  I  fell  into  a  doze,  from  which  I 
was  awakened  by  the  extraordinary  sensation  of  feel- 
ing cold.  Dawn  was  touching  the  far  horizon.  The 
train  was  straining  upward  through  a  sharply  rising 
country.  As  the  sun  rose  we  came  in  sight  of  As- 
torga,  standing  drearily  on  her  bleak  hilltop,  and  in 
memory  of  Gil  Bias  and  for  the  unlimbering  of  my 
legs  I  alighted  and  climbed  into  the  town.     It  proved 


216      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

as  uninteresting  as  any  in  Spain,  and  before  the  moni'- 
ing  was  old  I  was  again  riding  northwestward. 
Soon  there  came  an  utter  change  of  scene;  tunnels 
grew  unaccountable,  the  railroad  winding  its  way 
doggedly  upward  through  a  wild,  heavily  wooded 
mountain  region  that  had  little  in  common  with  famil- 
iar Spanish  landscapes.  In  mid-afternoon  I  dis- 
mounted at  the  station  of  Lugo,  the  capital  of 
Galicia. 


CHAPTER  Xn 

VriLDEST    SPAIN 

NEAREST  of  all  the  Iberian  peninsula  to  our 
own  land,  the  ancient  kingdom  of  Galicia  is 
as  well-nigh  unknown  to  us  as  any  section  of  Europe. 
As  far  back  as  mankind's  memory  carries  it  has  been 
Spain's  "  last  ditch."  Up  into  this  wild  mountain 
comer  of  the  peninsula  retreated  in  its  turn  each 
subdued  race  as  conqueror  after  conqueror  swept 
over  the  land, —  the  aboriginal  Iberians  before  the 
Celts,  the  Celtiberians  before  the  coast-hugging 
Phoenicians  and  Carthaginians,  these  before  the 
omniverous  Romans,  followed  as  the  centuries  rolled 
on  by  Vandal,  Suevi,  Goth  and  Moor.  Further 
they  could  not  flee,  for  behind  them  the  world  falls 
away  by  sheer  cragged  cliffs  into  the  fathomless 
sea.  Here  the  fugitives  melted  together  into  a 
racial  amalgam,  an  uncourageous  amalgam  on  the 
whole,  for  in  each  case  those  who  reached  the  fast- 
nesses were  that  remnant  of  the  race  that  preferred 
life  to  honor,  those  who  **  fought  and  ran  away," 
or  who  took  to  their  heels  even  earlier  in  the  pro- 
ceedings. 

217 


218      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

Yet  it  was  a  long  two  centuries  after  Hannibal 
had  followed  his  father  Hasdrubal  into  the  Stygian 
realms  of  the  defeated,  after  Rome  had  covered 
the  rest  of  the  peninsula  with  that  network  of  roads 
that  remains  to  this  day,  that  the  power  of  the  out- 
side world  pushed  its  way  into  this  tumbled  wilder- 
ness. But  for  the  necessity  of  loot  to  pay  the  gam- 
bling debts  of  his  merry  youth  the  conqueror  indeed 
might  never  have  appeared.  Yet  appear  he  did, 
—  a  young  Roman  just  beginning  to  display  a 
crownal  baldness,  known  to  his  legions  as  Caesar  and 
answering  to  his  friends  of  the  Roman  boulevards 
and  casinos  to  the  name  of  Julius.  He  conquered; 
and  when  he,  too,  had  written  his  memoirs  and 
passed  his  perforated  way,  that  lucky  heir  of  all 
Roman  striving  caused  to  be  built  in  these  his  moun- 
tains a  city  that  should  —  like  all  that  sprouted  or 
grew  under  his  reign  —  bear  his  name, — ^"  Lucus 
Augusti  —  Gus's  place." 

To^3ay  it  is  Lugo,  a  modest  city  ensconced  in  the 
lap  of  a  plain  near  a  thousand  feet  above  the  railway 
station  that  bears  its  name.  Politically  Spanish,  it 
is  so  in  little  else.  The  last  traces  of  the  Arab,  so 
indelible  in  the  rest  of  the  peninsula,  have  disap- 
peared. The  racial  amalgam,  now  the  gaUego,  is 
close  akin  to  the  Portuguese,  like  all  long  domi- 
nated peoples  docile,  unassertive,  bom  to  be  a  servant 
to  mankind.  He  is  the  chief  butt,  the  low  comedian 
of  the  Spanish  stage,  slow,  loutish,  heavy  of  mind 


i 


WILDEST  SPAIN  219 

and  body,  without  a  suggestion  of  the  fire  of  that 
bubbling  child  of  enthusiasm,  the  Andaluz;  none  of 
the  native  dignity  and  consciousness  of  personal 
worth  of  the  Castilian,  not  even  the  dreaminess  of  the 
Manchegan.  He  is  fitted  to  be  what  he  is, —  the 
domestic,  the  server  of  his  fellow-countrymen. 

From  the  posada  at  the  city  gate  I  climbed  to 
Lugo's  chief  promenade  and  Alameda,  the  top  of 
her  surrounding  wall.  This  is  some  forty  feet  high, 
of  flat,  irregular  slabs  of  slate-stone  on  Roman 
foundations,  with  a  circuit  of  nearly  a  mile  and  a 
half.  The  town  within  and  below  is  of  the  same 
material,  the  dull  gray  or  drab  so  predominating 
as  to  give  the  place  the  sombemess  of  a  stone  village 
of  Wales.  The  inhabitants,  moreover,  have  little  of 
the  Spaniard's  love  of  color,  being  as  sober  in  garb 
as  in  demeanor.  It  is  noteworthy  that  those  com- 
munities that  are  least  embellished  by  nature  are  most 
prone  to  garb  themselves  in  all  the  colors  of  the 
spectrum.  The  Venetian  above  his  muddy  water 
has  been  noted  in  all  times  as  a  colorist;  the  peas- 
ants of  the  Apennines  barely  a  hundred  miles  away 
have  very  little  brightness  of  dress. 

So  the  Lugense;  for  if  the  town  itself  is  somber 
gray,  the  moss  and  vines  that  overrun  the  low, 
leaden  houses,  the  gardens  scattered  among  them, 
the  flowers  that  trail  from  the  windows  of  the  dwell- 
ings built  medieval-fashion  into  the  walls  make  the 
scene  gay  even  within.     While  outwardly  it  in  un- 


220      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

surpassed.  From  the  wall-top  promenade  the  eye 
commands  an  endless  vista  of  richest  green  landscape, 
a  labyrinth  of  munificent  hill  forms  and  mountain 
ridges  dense-wooded  with  veritable  Alpine  forests 
rolling  away  on  every  side  to  the  uttermost  horizon. 

In  the  town  itself  is  almost  nothing  of  what  the 
tourist  calls  "  sights " ;  which  is,  perhaps,  a  chief 
reason  why  his  shadow  almost  never  falls  within  it. 
There  is  only  the  dull,  bluish-stone  cathedral,  and 
an  atmosphere  wholly  individual;  nothing  exciting, 
nothing  extraordinary,  though  one  amusing  detail 
of  life  is  sure  to  attract  attention.  Like  many 
towns  of  Spain,  Lugo  obtains  her  water  through  the 
mouths  of  stone  lions  in  her  central  plaza.  But  here 
the  fountain  spouts  are  for  some  Gallegan  reason 
high  above  the  flagging,  far  out  of  reach.  Whence 
the  plaza  and  the  streets  of  the  city  are  at  all  hours 
overrun  with  housewives  and  domestics  carrying  not 
merely  pitchers  but  a  tin  tube  some  ten  feet  long 
through  which  to  conduct  the  water  into  their  recep- 
tacles. In  nothing  does  the  town  differ  from 
familiar  Spain  more  than  in  temperature.  Her 
climate  is  like  that  of  Bar  Harbor.  A  change  in  a 
few  hours  as  from  Florida  in  August  to  Mount 
Desert  brought  quickly  home  to  me  the  fact  that  my 
garb  was  fitted  only  for  perpetual  summer.  Almost 
with  the  setting  sun  I  fell  visibly  to  shivering,  and 
by  dark  I  was  forced  to  take  refuge  in  bed. 

I  had  come  into  Galicia  proposing  to  strike  across 


WILDEST  SPAIN  221 

country  to  Oviedo,  capital  of  the  Asturlas,  in  the 
hope  of  getting  wholly  and  thoroughly  *'  off  the 
beaten  track."  Therein  I  seemed  fully  to  have  suc- 
ceeded. Inquiries  in  Lugo  elicited  the  information 
that  Oviedo  was  reputed  to  lie  somewhere  to  the 
eastward.  Nothing  more;  except  some  nebulous 
notion  of  a  highway  beginning  at  the  base  of  the 
city  wall  leading  for  a  day  or  two  in  that  direction. 
For  which  uncertainty  I  was  in  no  sense  sorry,  de- 
lighted with  the  prospect  of  exploring  by  a  route  of 
my  own  that  wooded  wilderness  of  mountains  that 
spreads  endlessly  away  from  Lugo's  promenade,  cer- 
tain of  finding  a  land  and  a  people  unsullied  by 
tourists. 

Dinner  over  on  the  day  after  my  arrival,  I  de- 
scended from  the  city  of  Augustus  by  the  unpaved 
road  that  was  to  set  me  a  little  way  on  my  journey. 
It  was  soon  burrowing  through  dense,  scented  for- 
ests, broken  by  scores  o£  little  deep  green  meadows 
along  the  way;  so  many  and  so  inviting  that  it 
required  a  strong  tug  of  the  will  to  keep  from  lying 
down  for  a  nap  in  each  of  them,  in  memory  of  the 
many  grassless,  siestaless,  fly-bitten  days  in  the  rest 
of  the  peninsula.  Truly  the  good  things  of  this 
world  are  unevenly  distributed.  In  fact,  only  by 
a  dead  lift  of  the  imagination  could  one  compre- 
hend that  this  also  was  Spain.  Switzerland,  per- 
haps, but  never  a  part  and  portion  of  the  same  coun- 
try with  the  sear,  deforested  uplands  of  Castille,  the 


»22      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

sandy  stretches  of  Andalusia,  with  osseous  and  all 
but  treeless  La  Mancha.  The  division  line  between 
Europe  and  Africa  was  meant  surely  to  be  the 
Pyrenees  and  this  Cantabrian  range  rather  than  the 
Mediterranean. 

When  darkness  settled  down  I  halted  at  a  jumbled 
stone  hamlet,  where  payment  was  refused  except  for 
the  few  cents'  worth  of  peasant  fare  I  ate.  For  my 
bed,  was  spread  in  an  open  stable  a  bundle  of  newly 
threshed  wheat-straw  that  was  longer  than  myself. 
A  half-day's  tramp  had  not  left  me  sleepy.  The 
night  lay  cool  and  silent  about  me,  and  I  sank  into 
that  reverie  of  contentment  that  comes  most  surely 
upon  the  wanderer  when  he  has  left  the  traveled 
world  behind  and  turns  his  face  care-free  toward  the 
unknown,  that  mysterious  land  across  which  beck- 
ons the  aerial  little  sprite  men  name  Wanderlust. 
[For  the  joy  of  travel  is  not  in  arriving  but  in  setting 
|_^  forth,  in  moving  onward;  how  fast  matters  little, 
where,  even  less,  but  ever  on  and  on,  forgetting,  for 
the  supremest  satisfaction,  that  there  is  a  goal  to 
attain.  Let  a  man  wander  away  into  unknown  lands 
smiling  with  simimer,  his  journey's  end  little  more 
than  conjecture,  his  day  of  arrival  a  matter  of  in- 
difference, and  if  he  feel  not  then  the  joy  of  the 
open  road  he  may  know  for  a  certainty  that  he  is 
a  hug-the-hearth,  and  no  gipsy  and  a  vagabond. 

In    the    morning    continued    a    roadway    hobble- 
skirted  by  forests,  a  country  as  pleasing  as  Caruso's 


WILDEST  SPAIN  238 

voice,  as  soothing  to  the  traveler  from  stony  Spain 
as  McDowell's  music.  To  enumerate  the  details  of 
life  and  landscape  here  is  merely  to  tell  by  contrast 
what  the  rest  of  Spain  is  not.  The  inhabitants  were 
in  the  highest  degree  laconic,  as  taciturn  as  the 
central  and  southern  Spaniard  is  garrulous,  self- 
conscious  to  the  point  of  bashfulness,  a  characteristic 
as  uncommon  in  the  rest  of  the  country  as  among 
the  Jews  or  Arabs;  a  heavy-handed,  unobserving 
peasantry  that  passed  the  stranger  unaccosted,  al- 
most unnoticed.  Such  conversation  as  exchanged 
must  be  introduced  by  the  traveler.  The  cheering 
"  Vaya ! "  was  heard  no  more,  the  stock  greeting 
being  a  mumbled  *'  Buenos." 

In  appearance,  be  the  inspection  not  too  close,  this 
mountain  people  well  deserves  the  outworn  epithet 
*'  picturesque."  The  women  young  and  old  wore 
on  their  heads  large  kerchiefs  of  brilliant  red,  and 
most  of  them  a  waist  of  the  same  color,  offering 
striking  contrast  to  the  rich  green  background,  as  the 
latter  was  sure  to  be.  As  footwear,  except  those  un- 
possessed of  any,  both  sexes  had  wooden  shoes 
painted  black  and  fancifully  carved,  which,  scrap- 
ing along  the  highway,  carried  the  thoughts  quickly 
back  to  Japan.  At  nearer  sight,  however,  some- 
thing of  the  picturesqueness  was  lost  in  the  unfailing 
evidences  of  a  general  avoidance  of  the  bath  and 
washtub. 

Of  least  interest  were  the  dwellings  of  this  peas- 


£24     FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

antry, —  villages  neither  frequent  nor  large,  more 
properly  mere  heaps  of  gray  huts  built  without 
order  or  plan  of  the  slate-stone  of  which  the  prov- 
ince itself  is  chiefly  formed,  as  was  seen  wherever 
the  outer  soil  had  been  stripped  away  and  the  skele- 
ton of  the  mountain  laid  bare.  For  all  the  char- 
acter of  the  country  abundance  of  rain  and  a  pains- 
taking agriculture  gave  good  crops.  Galicia  indeed 
supports,  though  in  poverty,  the  densest  population 
of  the  peninsula.  Wheat,  Indian  com,  and  hay 
abounded.  The  former  was  stacked,  and  threshed 
with  flails  —  two  customs  unknown  in  Spain,  as  the 
latter  products  are  entirely.  The  maize  was  sown. 
A  species  of  cabbage  on  a  stalk  some  two  feet  long 
was  among  the  most  common  of  the  vegetables. 

AU  these  products  grew,  not  on  the  level,  but  in 
little  isolated,  precipitous  fields  in  which  it  seemed 
impossible  that  the  laborers,  male  and  female  with 
sickles  or  mattocks,  could  stand  upright.  Flocks  of 
sheep  and  goats  were  many,  and  as  the  final  change 
from  the  Spain  that  I  had  hitherto  known  there  was 
nowhere  silence.  The  forests  on  either  hand  were 
vocal  with  the  songs  of  birds.  Mountain  streams 
came  plunging,  headlong  down  the  ravines,  or 
brawled  along  through  stony  channels  beside  the 
winding  way.  The  water  was  of  the  purest  and 
clearest,  which  may,  perhaps,  have  led  the  inhabit- 
ants to  give  most  of  their  mundifying  attention  to 
the  vessels  in  which  it  was   carried, —  great  oaken 


WILDEST  SPAIN  225 

buckets  each  with  three  wide  hoops  scoured  spotless 
and  shining  as  a  Hindu's  Jota. 

But  most  unfailing  breakers  of  the  silence  and 
most  characteristic  of  all  the  features  of  the  province 
was  its  vehicles.  The  Phrygian  peasants  who 
dragged  their  produce  into  Troy  before  the  siege 
had  certainly  as  up-to-date  a  conveyance.  The  trav- 
eler's first  encounter  with  one  of  these  Homeric  con- 
trivances is  sure  to  be  startling.  There  is  only  one 
word  that  exactly  expresses  their  sound  from  afar, 
—  the  French  bourdonner  —  the  noise  of  the  bum- 
blebee. Indeed,  when  first  I  heard  it  I  fell  to 
threshing  about  my  ears,  sure  that  one  of  those  in- 
sects was  upon  me.  Slowly  the  sound  grew  to  the 
meowling  of  a  thousand  cats,  and  around  a  turn  of 
the  forest-hedged  road  came  a  peasant's  cart  drawn 
by  little  brown  oxen  —  they  are  as  often  cows  — 
much  like  our  Jerseys  in  appearance,  a  great  sheep- 
skin thrown  over  their  heads,  to  the  horns  of  which 
the  yoke  was  fastened.  The  unwieldy  edifice, 
wabbling  drunkenly  as  it  came,  consisted  of  little 
more  than  two  solid  disks  of  wood  like  cistern  covers 
turning  on  a  wooden  axle,  the  whole  having  about 
it  neither  an  ounce  of  iron  nor  a  smell  of  axle-grease. 
Its  pace  certainly  did  not  exceed  a  mile  an  hour, 
the  oxen  see-sawing  from  side  to  side  of  the  road, 
twisting  their  burdened  heads  to  stare  at  me  with 
curious,  sad  eyes.  As  it  passed,  my  ears  literally 
ached  with  its  scream.     I  doubled  my  pace  to  flee  the 

IK 


226      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

torture.  But  there  was  no  entire  escape;  hardly 
once  thereafter  was  I  out  of  sound  of  a  cart  or  two, 
now  screaming  by,  now  **  bourdonning  "  away  across 
some  valley,  buzzing  at  times  even  after  the  night 
had  settled  down. 

Early  on  this  second  day,  which  was  Sunday,  there 
appeared  a  far  more  precipitous  and  rocky  country 
through  which  the  road  began  to  wind  its  way  up- 
ward amid  a  chaos  of  rugged  tumbled  valleys,  gain- 
ing by  early  afternoon  an  elevation  above  the  line 
of  vegetation.  For  two  hours  I  kept  lookout  for  a 
bit  of  level  space  for  a  siesta,  without  finding  a  patch 
of  flat  ground  as  large  as  my  knapsack.  I  stepped 
over  the  edge  of  the  highway  and  lay  down  on  a 
bank  so  sheer  that  I  was  obliged  to  brace  my  stick 
against  the  small  of  my  back  to  keep  from  pitching 
down  the  thousand-foot  slope  into  a  brook;  and  even 
as  it  was  I  awoke  to  find  I  had  shifted  some  ten 
feet  down  the  hill. 

The  ascent  thereafter  grew  stUl  sharper,  the  sur- 
rounding world  being  at  last  wholly  enveloped  in  a 
dense  cloud.  From  out  of  this  I  heard,  at  what  I 
fancied  must  be  toward  sunset,  sounds  of  revelry,  by 
which,  marching  onward,  I  was  soon  encompassed, 
though  still  unseeing  and  unseen.  Suddenly  there 
came  waltzing  toward  me  out  of  the  fog  a  couple  in 
each  other's  arms,  disappearing  again  as  another 
pair  whirled  forth  out  of  the  unknown.  Wandering 
on  through  a  merry  but  invisible  multitude  I  ran  all 


WILDEST  SPAIN  227 

but  into  the  arras  of  two  guardias  civiles  leaning  on 
their  muskets.  They  greeted  me  with  vast  surprise, 
"Welcoming  me  to  their  mountain-top  town  of  Fonsa- 
grada  and,  far  from  demanding  my  papers,  of- 
fered to  find  me  a  partner  that  I  might  join  the 
village  in  its  Sunday  celebration  on  the  green.  I  de- 
clined such  hilarity,  but  for  an  hour  stood  chatting 
with  them  while  the  dancers  whirled  unseen  about  us. 

Fonsagrada  has  no  regular  accommodations  for 
strangers.  The  peregrinating  band  of  musicians, 
however,  furnishing  the  day's  melody,  was  to  be 
cared  for  in  a  sort  of  grocery,  to  which  I  repaired 
with  them  when  the  dance  was  over.  Having  par- 
taken of  a  substantial  supper  in  which  the  far-famed 
hacalao  —  cod  preserved  in  great  chunks  in  barrels 
like  salt  pork;  a  main  staple  in  this  region  —  made 
its  initial  appearance,  I  laid  my  case  before  the  pro- 
prietor. He  was  a  Yankee-like  man  in  the  middle 
thirties,  of  modern  business  methods  even  though  he 
knew  next  to  nothing  of  the  world  outside  his  cloud- 
bound  village.  Notwithstanding,  therefore,  that 
there  was  no  *'  costumbre "  to  sanction  it,  he  bade 
me  spend  the  night  under  his  roof  —  which  I  did  all 
too  literally,  for  when  I  had  left  off  swapping  yarns 
with  the  melodious  nomads  my  host  led  the  way  to 
the  garret,  half-filled  with  straw,  where  in  the  midst 
of  a  too  realistic  dream  I  rose  up  suddenly  and  all 
but  shattered  my  head  on  the  roof  in  question. 

In  the  morning  the  clouds  were  still  wandering  like 


228      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

lost  souls  through  the  streets  of  Fonsagrada.  A 
mist  that  barely  escaped  being  a  rain  was  falling 
when  I  set  off  in  an  attempt  to  follow  the  voluminous 
directions  of  the  dubious  village.  According  to  these, 
when  I  had  passed  the  *'  Meson  de  Galo,"  a  lonely 
stone  tavern  a  few  miles  out,  I  left  the  road,  which 
was  bending  toward  Gijon  on  the  north  coast,  and 
fell  into  a  descending  mountain  path.  A  tang  of  the 
salt  sea  was  in  the  air.  All  the  day  through  I 
climbed,  slipped,  and  scrambled  over  jagged  mountain 
slopes  and  through  deep,  rocky  barrancas.  There 
develops  with  much  wandering  an  instinct  to  follow 
the  right  fork  of  a  mountain  trail,  slight  hints  that 
could  not  be  explained,  but  without  the  half -uncon- 
scious noting  of  which  I  must  have  gone  a  score  of 
times  astray.  Twice  or  thrice  I  stumbled  into  a  ham- 
let in  some  wrinkle  of  the  range,  a  village  of  five  or 
six  hovels  huddling  in  the  shadow  of  an  enormous, 
overtowering  church,  all  built  of  flat  field  stones  and 
swarming  with  huge  white  dogs. 

At  Grandas,  a  bit  larger  village  overhung  by 
massed  up  mountains,  I  was  at  length  so  fortunate 
as  to  get.  after  much  search  an  intangible  imitation 
of  a  meal.  From  there  I  panted  a  long  time  upward 
and  came  out  at  last  above  a  seemingly  bottomless 
gorge,  a  gorge  so  deep  that  I  had  scrambled  nearly 
a  half-hour  along  its  brink  before  I  noted  that  far 
down  in  its  depths  was  a  town,  encircled  by  vertical 
vineyards,  like  embroidery  on  the  lower  skirts  of  its 


WILDEST  SPAIN  229 

overhanging  mountains.  My  path  lay  plainly  visible 
on  the  opposite  slope,  only  a  long  jump  away,  but  a 
jump  for  Pegasus  or  the  princess  of  the  Rosstrappe, 
and  I,  mere  mortal,  was  forced  to  wind  a  long  hour 
and  a  half  to  and  fro  on  the  rubbled  face  of  the 
mountain  before  I  entered  the  town  below,  called 
Saline. 

Before  me  lay  the  most  laborious  task  of  all  my 
Spanish  journey.  A  mountain  as  nearly  perpendicu- 
lar as  man  could  hope  to  ascend,  without  a  break 
or  a  knoll  in  all  its  slope,  rose,  a  sheer  wall,  certainly 
four  thousand  feet  above.  The  gorge  seemed  some 
boundary  set  by  the  gods  between  two  worlds.  Up 
the  face  of  the  cliff  a  path  Lad  been  laid  out  with 
mathematical  precision,  every  one  of  its  score  of  legs 
a  toilsome  climb  over  loose  stones,  with  the  sun,  un- 
tempered  by  a  breath  of  wind,  pouring  down  its  fury 
upon  my  back.  It  was  hot  as  Spain  in  the  depth  of 
the  canyon;  it  was  chilling  cold  when  I  reached  the 
summit  heavily  crested  in  clouds  and  threw  myself 
down  breathless  on  my  back.  Darkness  was  coming 
on,  and  I  fell  soon  to  shivering  in  the  biting  mountain 
air  and  must  rise  and  hurry  forward.  It  was  not 
strange  that  in  the  fog  and  darkness  instinct  failed 
and  that  when  finally  I  reached  a  village  of  eight  or 
nine  hovels  and  inquired  its  name  the  inhabitants  re- 
plied "  Figuerina,"  not  in  the  least  like  the  "  La 
Mesa  '*  I  had  expected. 

Of  a  brawny,  weather-beaten  girl  milking  a  cow^ 


230      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

by  the  light  of  a  torch  in  what  passed  for  the  princi- 
pal street,  I  asked: 

"  Is  there  a  posada  in  town  ?  " 

**  No  se,  senor,"  she  answered. 

"  Don't  know !  When  your  town  has  only  nine 
houses  ?  " 

But  she  only  stared  dully  at  me  through  the  gloom, 
and  I  carried  my  inquiry  elsewhere.  With  no  bet- 
ter result,  however,  for  each  one  I  asked  returned  the 
same  laconic,  *'  I  don't  know."  I  had  sat  down  on  a 
boulder  in  the  center  of  the  hamlet  to  puzzle  over 
this  strange  ignorance  when  a  strapping  mountaineer 
approached  through  the  darkness  and  led  me  with 
few  words  to  the  house  of  the  head  man.  The  latter 
was  in  bed  with  a  broken  leg,  having  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  fall  off  his  farm  a  few  days  before.  I  was 
taken  before  him  as  he  lay  propped  up  with  pillows 
and,  after  a  few  brief  questions,  he  commanded  his 
family  to  make  me  at  home. 

Only  at  a  distance  are  these  mountain  hamlets  of 
northern  Spain  inviting.  For  the  good  people  live, 
indoors  and  out,  in  peace  and  equality  with  their  pigs 
and  chickens,  not  because  they  are  by  nature  unclean, 
but  because  they  know  no  other  life  than  this,  nor  any 
reason  why  their  domestic  animals  should  not  be 
treated  as  equals.  The  wife  of  the  village  chief  led 
me  into  the  living-room  and  kitchen.  I  knew  it  was 
that,  for  she  said  so.  The  place  was  absolutely 
dark.     Since  leaving  Lugo  I  had  not  seen  a  pane  of 


WILDEST  SPAIN  231 

glass,  and  lamps  of  any  sort  appear  to  be  unknown 
in  these  hamlets  of  the  Sierra  de  Ranadoiro. 
There  was,  to  be  sure,  a  bit  of  fire  in  one  comer, 
but  it  gave  not  the  slighest  illumination,  only  a 
thick  smoke  that  wandered  about  looking  for  an  exit, 
and  unsuccessfully,  for  there  was  nothing  whatever  in 
the  way  of  chimney,  and  the  door  had  been  closed 
as  we  entered.  Smoker  though  I  am,  I  began  to 
weep  and  did  not  once  leave  off  while  I  remained  in 
the  room. 

The  mustiness  of  a  dungeon  assailed  the  nostrils; 
the  silence  was  broken  by  a  continual  droning.  The 
floor  was  stone.  In  the  room  were  six  or  eight  men 
and  women,  as  I  discovered  little  by  little  from  their 
voices.  Supper  was  announced,  and  a  match  I 
struck  showed  an  indistinct  group  of  which  I  was  a 
part  humped  over  a  steaming  kettle  in  the  center  of 
the  floor.  Into  this  all  began  to  dip  their  bread. 
I  hung  back,  which  the  wife  discovering  by  some 
instinct,  she  made  an  exclamation  I  did  not  under- 
stand and  soon  after  there  was  thrust  into  my  blinds 
a  private  bowl  of  the  concoction. 

It  turned  out  to  be  a  *'  caldo  gallego " —  an  all 
but  tasteless  thick  soup  of  which  the  chief  ingredient, 
besides  water,  is  the  long-stemmed  cabbage  indige- 
nous to  the  region.  A  spoon  was  then  handed  me. 
It  was  of  wood,  homepiade,  and  flat  as  a  canoe-pad- 
dle. What  most  aroused  my  wonder  was  the  bread. 
A  glimpse  I  had  caught  of  it  in  the  flicker  of  my 


232      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

match  seemed  to  show  a  loaf  of  about  the  size  of  a 
large  grindstone  —  though  I  charged  this  to  optical 
illusion  —  from  which  wedges  were  cut,  one  of  them 
being  laid  in  my  lap.  It  was  coarse  as  mortar,  yet 
as  savory,  and  proved  later  to  be  as  sustaining  a 
bread  as  I  have  yet  run  across  on  the  earth.  This 
and  the  caldo  being  no  match  for  a  mountain-climbing 
appetite,  I  asked  the  privilege  of  buying  a  bowl  of 
milk.  From  my  unseen  companions  arose  many 
ejaculations  of  wonder  that  I  could  afford  such  a 
luxury,  but  a  bowl  of  it  was  soon  put  in  my  hands. 
A  better  milk  I  never  broke  bread  in. 

Still  I  was  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  incessant 
droning  in  the  room,  like  the  croak  of  a  distant  ox- 
cart. Since  my  entrance,  too,  I  had  been  struck  a 
thousand  times  lightly  in  the  face,  as  with  bread 
crumbs  or  the  paper-wads  indigenous  to  the  old 
country  schoolhouse.  When  it  occurred  to  me  to  put 
the  two  mysteries  together  both  were  solved.  The 
flies  were  so  thick  in  the  room  that  they  made  this 
sound  in  flying  blindly  back  and  forth. 

But  once  upstairs  the  dwelling  assumed  a  new 
rating.  Here  was,  it  is  true,  no  luxury;  but  the 
rough-fashioned  chamber,  partly  store-room  and 
partly  spare  bedroom,  was  capacious  and  clean,  of 
the  rough,  unused  sort  of  cleanliness  of  a  farmer's 
"  best  room,"  opened  only  on  extraordinary  occa- 
sions. The  one  sheet  of  the  massive  bed  was  as  stiff 
as  any  windjammer's  mainsail,  the  blanket  as  rough 


WILDEST  SPAIN  238 

as  the  robe  of  a  Cistercian  monk.  Among  a  score  of 
multiform  articles  stored  in  the  room  was  a  stack  of 
bread  such  as  I  had  eaten  below,  some  forty  loaves 
each  fully  as  large  as  a  half -bushel  measure.  It  is 
baked  from  four  to  six  months  ahead,  twice  or  thrice 
a  year,  and  has  a  crust  hard  and  impervious  as  a 
glazed  pot,  which  keeps  it  fresh  and  savory  for  an  al- 
most unlimited  period. 

As  I  bade  farewell  to  my  host  next  morning  I  held 
out  to  him  two  pesetas.  He  resented  the  offer  as  an 
Arab  or  a  Castilian  might  have,  but  being  of  those 
accustomed  to  express  themselves  less  in  words  than  in 
actions,  did  so  laconically.  When  I  offered  it  again 
he  rose  half  up  on  his  elbows  and  bellowed  "  No ! " 
His  gruffness  was  in  no  sense  from  anger,  but  merely 
his  mode  of  speaking  emphatically,  and  a  way  of 
hiding  that  bashfulness  so  common  to  mountaineers, 
who  are  usually,  as  here,  a  shy  and  kindly  people  with 
much  more  genuine  benevolence  than  grace  of  man- 
ner. I  protested  that  I  should  at  least  be  permitted 
to  pay  for  my  extravagance,  the  milk,  arguing  that 
even  a  wanderer  on  his  feet  was  better  able  to  spare  a 
peseta  than  a  village  chief  on  his  back.  But  he 
roared  **  No ! "  again,  and  furthermore  commanded 
his  wife  to  cut  me  a  wedge  of  the  longevious  bread, 
"  to  carry  me  over  the  day." 

Once  escaped  from  the  tangle  of  inhabited  stone- 
piles,  I  strode  away  down  rock-jumbled  ravines,  one 
close   succeeding  another  and  carrying  me  all  but 


234      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

heafdlong  downward.  In  the  depths  of  the  third  I 
risked  a  plunge  into  a  mountain  brook,  though  the 
water  was  icy  and  the  air  still  almost  wintry  cold. 
The  day  was  warming,  however,  by  the  time  I  de- 
scended upon  the  hamlet  of  Berducedo,  where  I  got 
fried  eggs  and  a  new  highway. 

To  chronicle  the  vagaries  of  the  latter  during  the 
rest  of  the  day  would  be  a  thankless  task.  For  miles 
it  wound  around  and  upward,  ever  upward  on  the  face 
of  bare  stony  mountains  like  a  spiral  stairway  to 
heaven.  Then  suddenly  from  each  giddy  height  it 
dived  headlong  down  into  deep-wooded,  fertile  val- 
leys; then  up  again  round  and  round  another  moun- 
tain shoulder  far  beyond  the  last  stunted  shrub. 
Later  in  the  day  it  took  to  rounding  these  peaks  al- 
most oii^the  level,  coming  a  score  of  times  so  close 
to  itself  that  I  could  all  but  toss  my  bundle  across, 
only  to  buckle  back  upon  itself  for  miles  around  some 
narrow  but  apparently  bottomless  gulley. 

Somewhere  during  the  previous  afternoon  I  had 
crossed  the  unmarked  boundary  between  Galicia  and 
the  still  more  rugged  kingdom  of  Asturias,  to-day 
the  province  of  Oviedo.  A  new  style  of  architecture 
gradually  became  prevalent.  The  buildings  were  of 
two  stories,  the  lower,  of  stone,  housing  the  animals, 
while  the  dwelling  proper  was  of  wood  and  perched 
a  foot  or  more  above  the  lower  story  on  four  cone- 
shaped  cornerstones,  like  some  great  awkward  bird 
ready  to  take  flight. 


WILDEST  SPAIN  235 

But  for  this  peculiarity  the  village  in  which  night 
overhauled  me  differed  but  little  from  that  of  the 
evening  before,  except  in  being  many  hundred  feet 
nearer  sea  level.  It  was  called  San  Fecundo.  As 
before,  my  inquiry  for  an  inn  was  each  time  answered 
by  a  terse  "  I  don't  know."  I  found  the  head  man  in 
good  health,  however, —  a  stalwart  fellow  little  past 
thirty  who  was  shoveling  manure  in  his  front  yard. 
Yet  so  local  is  the  dialect  of  every  village  in  this 
region  that  I  tried  for  some  time  in  vain  to  make 
known  my  wants  to  him. 

"  Can't  you  speak  Spanish,  seiior?  "  I  cried  out. 

**  No,  senor,"  he  replied  like  the  report  of  a  gun, 
and  apparently  angered  at  the  allegation.  We 
managed  nevertheless  by  patience  and  repetition  to 
establish  communication  between  us,  and  I  found  out 
at  last  why  my  inquiry  for  a  posada  had  evoked  so 
surprising  an  answer.  Public  hostelries  being  un- 
known among  them,  the  mountaineers  understand  the 
question  "  Is  there  an  inn  in  town  ?  "  to  mean  *'  Do 
you  suppose  any  resident  will  furnish  me  accommoda- 
tions ?  " 

The  head  man  did  in  this  case,  in  spite  of  my  un- 
fortunate blunder  in  calling  him  a  gallego.  So 
great  is  the  sectionalism  in  these  Cantabrian  ranges 
that  a  man  from  one  village  deeply  resents  even  being 
taken  for  a  resident  of  another  a  mile  distant;  while 
the  Asturians,  a  blending  of  the  aboriginal  Iberian 
and  the  Goth,  in  whose  caves  of  Covadonga  was  kept 


236      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

alight  the  last  flicker  of  Spanish  liberty  and  Chris- 
tianity, consider  themselves  free  and  independent 
hidalgos  infinitely  superior  to  the  submissive  gallego. 
There  were  in  truth  some  noticeable  differences  of 
character  and  customs,  that  were  to  increase  as  I 
advanced. 

We  spent  the  evening  in  another  ventless,  smoky, 
fly-buzzing  kitchen,  though  this  time  the  fireplace 
gave  a  bit  of  blaze  and  from  time  to  time  the  rugged 
faces  of  the  eight  or  ten  men,  who  had  gathered  at 
the  invitation  of  the  village  leader,  flashed  visible. 
I  entertained  them  with  such  stories  of  America  as 
are  most  customary  and  popular  on  such  occasions. 
This  was  no  light  task.  Not  only  were  there  many 
words  entirely  indigenous  to  the  village,  but  such 
Castilian  as  my  hearers  used  would  scarcely  be  recog- 
nized in  Castille.  The  expression  "For  alia"  (over 
there)  they  reduced  to  "  Pa  ca  ";  "  horse  "  was  never 
"  caballo,"  but  either  "  cabalo "  or  "  cabayo." 
Worst  of  all,  the  infinitive  of  the  verb  served  indif- 
ferently for  all  persons  and  tenses.  "  Yo  ir  "  might 
mean  "I  go,"  "I  was  going,"  "I  shall  go,"  "I 
should  go  "  and  even  "  I  would  have  gone  "  and  **  I 
should  be  going." 

Most  taking  of  all  the  stories  I  could  produce 
were  those  concerning  the  high  buildings  of  New 
York.  I  had  developed  this  popular  subject  at  some 
length  when  a  mountaineer  interposed  a  question  that 
I  made  out  at  length  to  be  a  query  whether  those  who 


WILDEST  SPAIN  237 

live  in  these  great  houses  spend  all  their  time  in  them 
or  take  an  hour  or  two  every  morning  to  climb  the 
stairs. 

"  Hay  ascensores,  senores,"  I  explained,  "  ele- 
vators ;  some  expresses,  some  mixtos,  as  on  your  rail- 
roads." 

A  long,  unaccountable  silence  followed.  I  filled 
and  lighted  my  pipe,  and  still  only  the  heavy  breath- 
ing of  the  untutored  sons  of  the  hills  about  me 
sounded.  Finally  one  of  them  cleared  his  throat 
and  inquired  in  humble  voice: 

"  Would  you  be  so  kind,  senor,  as  to  tell  us  what 
is  an  elevator.'' " 

It  was  by  no  means  easy.  Long  explanation 
gave  them  only  the  conception  of  a  train  that  ran  up 
and  down  the  walls  of  the  building.  How  this  over- 
came the  force  of  gravity  I  did  not  succeed  in  mak- 
ing clear  to  them ;  moreover  there  was  only  one  of  the 
group  that  had  ever  seen  a  train. 

In  the  morning  the  head  man  accepted  with  some 
protest  two  reales  —  half  a  peseta.  The  highway 
again  raced  away  downward,  describing  its  parabolas 
and  boomerang  movements  as  before,  and  gradually 
bringing  me  to  a  realization  of  how  high  I  had 
climbed  into  the  sky.  On  every  hand  rocky  gorges 
and  sheer  cliffs;  now  and  again  a  group  of  charcoal- 
burners  on  the  summit  of  a  slope  stood  out  against 
the  dull  sky-line  like  Millet's  figures  —  for  the  sun 
was  rarely  visible.     As  I  descended  still  lower,  more 


^38      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

pretentious,  red-roofed  villages  appeared,  and  bj 
mid-afternoon  I  entered  the  large  town  of  Tineo. 
As  I  was  leaving  one  of  its  shops  a  courtly  youth  in- 
troduced himself  as  a  student  in  the  University  of 
Valladolid,  and  as  he  knew  a  bit  of  English  it  was 
with  no  small  difficulty  that  I  resisted  his  entreaties 
to  talk  that  tongue  with  him  in  the  mile  or  two  he 
walked  with  me.  That  night  for  the  first  time  since 
leaving  Lugo  I  paid  for  my  lodging  in  a  public 
posada. 

Salas,  a  long  town  in  a  longer  green  valley,  was 
so  far  down  and  sheltered  that  figs  sold  —  by  number 
here  rather  than  weight  —  nine  for  a  cent.  Beyond, 
the  highway  strolled  for  miles  through  orchards  of 
apples  and  pears,  while  figs  dropped  thick  in  the  road 
and  were  trodden  under  foot.  For  the  first  time  I 
understood  the  force  of  the  expression,  "  not  worth  a 

fig." 

In  the  wineshop  where  I  halted  for  an  afternoon 
lunch  I  got  the  shock  of  that  summer's  journey. 
Casually  I  picked  up  the  first  newspaper  I  had  seen 
in  a  week;  and  stared  a  full  moment  at  it  unbeliev- 
ing. The  entire  front  page  was  taken  up  by  a  photo- 
graph showing  Posadas  lying  in  bed,  his  familiar 
face  gaunt  with  pain,  and  about  him  his  father,  a 
priest,  and  a  fellow-torero. 

"Carajo!"  I  gasped.  *' What 's  this;  Posadas 
wounded?  " 

"  Mas,"   replied   the   innkeeper   shortly.     "  Killed 


WILDEST  SPAIN  28» 

last  Sunday.  Too  bad;  he  made  good  sport  for  the 
aficionados." 

An  accompanying  article  gave  particulars.  The 
Sevillian  had  been  engaged  to  alternate  with  a  well- 
known  diestro  in  the  humble  little  plaza  of  San  Lucar 
de  Barrameda  on  the  lower  reaches  of  the  Guadalqui- 
vir. The  end  of  the  day  would  have  seen  him  a 
graduate  matador.  The  bulls  were  "  miuras  "  five 
years  old.  As  he  faced  the  first,  Posadas  executed 
some  pass  that  delighted  the  spectators.  For  once, 
evidently,  he  forgot  his  one  "  secret  of  success  " ;  he 
turned  to  acknowledge  the  applause.  In  a  flash 
the  animal  charged  and  gored  him  in  the  neck.  He 
tried  to  go  on,  poised  his  sword,  and  fainted;  and 
was  carried  to  the  little  lazaret  beneath  the  amphi- 
theater, while  the  festival  continued.  Toward  morn- 
ing he  died. 

All  this  had  passed  while  I  was  climbing  into  the 
cloud-cloaked  village  of  Fonsagrada,  two  weeks  to  an 
hour  since  I  had  last  seen  the  skilful  Sevillian  in  the 
ring.  The  article  ended  with  the  vulgarity  common 
to  the  yellow  j  ournal  tribe : 

*'  We  have  paid  the  dying  Posadas  one  thousand 
pesetas  for  the  privilege  of  taking  this  picture, 
which  is  almost  all  the  unfortunate  torero  left  his 
sorrowing  family." 

I  trudged  on  deep  in  such  reflections  as  such  oc- 
currences awaken,  noting  little  of  the  scene.  At  sun- 
set I  found  myself  tramping  through  a  warmer,  less 


240      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

abrupt  country,  half  conscious  of  having  passed 
Grado,  with  its  palaces,  nurse-girls,  and  conventional 
costumes.  As  dusk  fell  I  paused  to  ask  for  an  inn. 
"  A  bit  further  on,"  replied  the  householder.  I  con- 
tinued, still  pensive.  Several  times  I  halted,  always 
to  receive  the  same  reply,  "  A  bit  further,  senor." 
Being  in  no  sense  tired,  I  gave  the  matter  little  at- 
tention until  suddenly  the  seventh  or  eighth  repeti- 
tion of  the  unveracity  aroused  a  touch  of  anger  and 
a  realization  that  the  night  was  already  well  advanced. 
A  lame  man  hobbling  along  the  dark  road  gave  me 
once  more  the  threadbare  answer,  but  walked  some 
two  miles  at  my  side  and  left  me  at  the  door  of  a 
wayside  wineshop  that  I  should  certainly  not  have 
missed  even  without  him. 

The  chief  sources  of  the  boisterousness  within  were 
three  young  vagabonds  who  were  displaying  their  ac- 
complishments to  the  gathering.  One  was  playing 
tunes  on  a  comb  covered  with  a  strip  of  paper,  an- 
other produced  a  peculiarly  weird  music  in  a  high 
falsetto,  while  the  third  was  a  really  remarkable  imi- 
tator of  the  various  dialects  of  Spain.  With  the 
three  I  ascended  near  midnight  to  the  loft  of  the 
building,  where  a  supply  of  hay  offered  comfortable 
quarters.  For  an  hour  he  of  the  falsetto  sat  smok- 
ing cigarettes  and  singing  an  endless  ditty  of  his 
native  city,  the  refrain  of  which  rang  out  at  fre- 
quent intervals: 


WILDEST  SPAIN  241 

"  Mas  bonita  que  hay, 
A  Zaragoza  me  voy 
Dentro  de  Ar-r-r-rago-o-6n.''^ 

It  was  with  genuine  regret  that  I  noted  next  morn- 
ing the  reapproach  of  civilization.  Rough  as  is 
the  life  of  these  mountaineers  of  the  north  their  en- 
tire freedom  from  convention,  the  contact  with  real 
men  who  know  not  even  what  pose  and  pretense  are, 
the  drinking  into  my  lungs  of  the  exhilarating 
mountain  air  had  made  the  trip  that  was  just  ending 
by  far  the  most  joyful  portion  of  all  my  Spanish 
experiences.  Not  since  the  morning  I  climbed  into 
Astorga  had  I  heard  the  whine  of  a  beggar;  not 
once  in  all  the  northwest  had  I  caught  the  faintest 
scent  of  a  tourist.  The  trip  had  likewise  been  the 
most  inexpensive,  for  in  the  week's  tramp  I  had 
spent  less  than  twelve  pesetas. 

A  few  hours  more  down  the  mountainside  brought 
me  into  Oviedo,  where  I  took  up  my  abode  in  the 
Calle  de  la  Luna.  The  boyhood  home  of  Gil  Bias 
is  a  sober,  almost  gloomy  town,  where  the  sun  is 
reputed  to  shine  but  one  day  in  four.  Its  inhabit- 
ants have  much  in  common  with  the  slow-witted  Lu- 
gense,  though  they  are  on  the  whole  more  wide-awake 
and  self-satisfied.  Of  window  displays  the  most  fre- 
quent was  that  of  a  volume  in  richly  illustrated  paper 
cover  entitled,  "Los  Envenenadores   (poisoners)   de 

x6 


242      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

Chicago."  It  was,  possibly,  an  expos^  of  the  pack- 
ing houses,  but  I  did  not  find  time  to  read  it.  Au- 
gust was  nearing  its  close,  and  there  was  still  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  Spain  to  be  seen.  Luckily  my 
kilometer-book  was  scarcely  half-used  up ;  but  of  the 
joyful  days  of  freedom  on  the  open  road  there  could 
not  be  many  more« 


CHAPTER  Xin 

THE   LAND    OF   THE   BASQUE 

MY  knapsack  garnished,  I  turned  my  back  on 
Oviedo  early  on  Sunday  morning.  The 
train  wound  slowly  away  toward  the  lofty  serrated 
range  that  shuts  off  the  world  on  the  south.  As 
we  approached  the  mountains,  the  line  began  to  tie 
itself  in  knots,  climbing  ever  upward.  In  one  section 
two  stations  seven  miles  apart  had  twenty-six  miles 
of  railroad  between  them.  At  the  second  of  the  two 
a  flushed  and  puffing  Spaniard  burst  into  our  com- 
partment with  the  information  that,  having  reached 
the  former  after  the  train  had  departed,  he  had  over- 
taken us  on  foot. 

Still  we  climbed  until,  at  the  turning  of  the  day, 
high  up  where  clouds  should  have  been  we  sur- 
mounted the  ridgepole  of  the  range  and,  racing, 
roaring  downward,  were  almost  in  a  moment  back 
in  the  barren,  rocky,  sun-baked  Spain  of  old,  dust 
swirling  everywhere,  the  heat  wrapping  us  roimd  as 
with  a  woolen  blanket,  drying  up  the  very  tobacco 
in  my  pouch;  a  change  almost  as  decided  as  from 

the  forests  of  Norway  to  the  plains  of  India. 

£43 


244      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

Arrived  in  Le6n  at  three,  I  set  off  at  once  tourist- 
fashion  for  the  cathedral,  with  its  soaring  Gothic 
towers  and  delicate,  airy  flying-buttresses  the  first 
truly  inspiring  bit  of  Christian  architecture  I  had 
seen  in  Spain ;  the  first  indeed  whose  exterior  was  any- 
thing. Much  of  the  edifice,  however,  was  glaringly 
new,  the  scaflTolds  of  the  renovators  being  still  in 
place. 

But  here  again  "  if  the  house  of  God  is  rich  that 
of  man  is  poor,"  pauperous  in  fact.  When  once  the 
traveler  has  forced  himself  to  believe  that  Leon  was 
not  many  centuries  since  the  rich  capital  of  a  vast 
empire  he  must  surely  fall  sad  and  pensive  reflect- 
ing how  mutable  and  fleeting  indeed  are  the  things 
of  earth.  The  Leon  of  to-day  is  a  large  village, 
a  dried-up,  dirty,  dilapidated,  depopulated,  cobble- 
streeted  village  of  snarling,  meretricious-minded  in- 
habitants jumbled  together  inside  a  wall  that  with 
the  cathedral  is  the  only  remaining  proof  of  former 
importance.  Here  once  more  was  the  beggar  with 
his  distressing  whine,  his  brow  of  bronze,  and  his  all 
too  evident  injuries;  not  numerously  but  constituting 
a  large  percentage  of  the  population.  In  all  Spain 
the  devise  of  insurance  companies  on  the  fronts  of 
buildings  is  more  than  frequent;  in  Leon  there  was 
barely  a  hovel  without  one  or  more.  Which  could 
not  but  awaken  profound  wonder,  for  not  only  are 
there  no  wooden  houses  within  her  walls  to  make 
danger  of  fire  imminent,  but  a  greater  blessing  could 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE  245 

hardly  be  imagined  for  Leon  than  a  general  and  all- 
onbracing  conflagration. 

It  was,  perhaps,  because  of  the  unbroken  misery 
with  which  they  were  surrounded  that  the  Leonese 
were  individually  crabbed  and  cynical.  Not  a  cour- 
teous word  do  I  remember  having  received  in  all  the 
town,  and  in  vitriolic  remarks  the  keepers  and  guests 
of  the  tumble-down  parador  where  I  was  forced  to 
put  up  outdid  all  others. 

I  was  off  in  the  morning  at  the  first  opportunity, 
again  by  train,  which,  passing  in  the  early  afternoon 
through  a  blinding  sand-storm  near  the  village  of 
Cisneros,  landed  me  soon  after  at  Palencia.  This 
was  a  counterpart  of  Leon;  a  trifle  less  sulky  and 
universally  miserable,  but  as  sprawling,  sun-parched, 
and  slovenly.  Its  surrounding  plains  were  utterly 
verdureless,  their  flanking  hills  ossified,  its  gardens, 
promenades,  and  Alameda  past  all  hope  of  relief  by 
sprinkling  even  had  its  river  not  long  since  gone 
desert-dry  as  the  rest.  I  left  the  place  quickly, 
riding  into  the  night  and  descending  at  length  to 
march  to  the  inspiriting  music  of  a  military  band 
along  a  broad,  thick-peopled  Alameda,  at  the  end  of 
which  a  giant  statue  of  Columbus  bulked  massive 
against  the  moonlit  sky,  into  Valladolid. 

I  had  come  again  upon  a  real  city,  almost  the 
first  since  leaving  Madrid;  whence  accommodations, 
while  in  no  sense  lacking,  were  high  in  price.  In 
the  course  of  an  hour  of  prowling,  however,  I  was 


246      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

apprised  of  the  existence  of  a  modest  casa  d« 
huespedes  in  a  canyon-like  side  street.  I  rang  the 
great  doorbell  below  several  times  in  vain ;  which  was 
as  I  had  expected,  for  foolish  indeed  would  have 
been  the  Spaniard  who  remained  within  doors  on 
such  a  night,  while  the  band  played  and  the  city 
strolled  in  the  Alameda.  I  dropped  my  bundle  at 
my  feet  and  leaned  against  the  lintel  of  the  massive 
doorway. 

Within  an  hour  there  arrived  another  seeker  after 
quarters,  a  slender  Spaniard  in  the  early  summer  of 
life,  who  carried  two  heavy  portmanteaus  and  a 
leather  swordcase.  Almost  at  the  opening  of  our 
conversation  he  surprised  me  by  inquiring,  "  You  are 
a  foreigner,  verdad,  senor.''  "  I  commended  his  pene- 
tration and,  as  we  chatted,  sought  for  some  sign  of  his 
profession  or  place  in  society.  All  at  once  the  long, 
slender  swordcase  caught  my  eye. 

"  Ah !  Es  usted  torero,  senor,"  I  observed  with 
assurance. 

The  youth  awakened  the  echoes  of  the  narrow 
street  with  his  laughter. 

"  Bullfighter !  No,  indeed !  I  am  happy  to  say 
no.  I  am  a  student  in  the  national  cavalry  school 
here,  just  returned  from  my  month's  furlough. 
But  your  error  is  natural,"  he  went  on,  "  and  my 
fault,  I  have  really  no  right  to  appear  in  civilian 
garb.  It  would  mean  a  month  of  bread  and  water 
at  least  if  one  of  our  officers  caught  a  glimpse  of 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE         247 

me.  But  carajo!  The  family  above  may  not  be 
back  by  midnight.  We  can  leave  our  baggage  with 
the  portier  next  door." 

We  strolled  slowly  back  to  the  brilliantly  lighted 
Plaza  de  la  Constituti6n.  Suddenly  the  youth  inter- 
rupted an  anecdote  of  the  tan-bark  to  exclaim  in  a 
calm  but  earnest  voice : 

"  Caramba !  There  come  my  commandante  and 
the  first  lieutenant." 

Two  men  of  forty-five  or  fifty,  in  resplendent  uni- 
forms and  tall  red  caps,  their  swords  clinking  along 
the  pavement,  were  sauntering  down  upon  us.  I 
stepped  quickly  to  the  opposite  side  of  my  com- 
panion, being  taller  —  and  likewise  curious. 

"  Hombre ! "  he  protested  sharply,  stepping  back 
again.  *'  No  tenga  V.  cuidado.  It  is  not  our  way 
to  hide  from  our  officers." 

With  head  erect  and  military  stride  he  marched 
straight  on  before  him.  Luckily  the  officers  were  so 
engrossed  in  conversation  that  neither  glanced  up 
as  they  passed. 

We  drifted  into  a  cafe  and  ordered  "  helado,"  that 
Spanish  imitation  of  ice-cream  the  calling  of  which 
in  the  streets  had  so  frequently  caused  me  to  whirl 
about  in  astonishment,  so  much  does  it  sound  like  our 
*'  hello."  Over  it  we  fell  to  discussing  things  Ameri- 
can, in  which  we  were  gradually  joined  by  several 
well-dressed  men  at  the  adjoining  marble  tables.  In 
the  course  of  the  evening  I  chanced  to  remark  that 


us      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

one  of  the  surprises  of  my  summer's  trip  had  been 
to  Ind  so  little  resentment  against  the  United  States. 

"  Senor,**  said  the  youth,  while  each  and  all  of 
our  companions  gave  signs  of  agreement,  "  nothing 
more  fortunate  has  befallen  our  country  in  a  century 
than  the  loss  of  Cuba  and  the  Philippines.  Not  only 
has  it  taken  a  load  off  the  Spanish  people;  it  has 
brought  more  relief  than  you  can  guess  to  us  of 
the  army.  The  colonies  were  the  dumping-ground 
of  our  profession.  Once  let  an  officer  show  ability 
and  he  was  forthwith  shipped  off  to  the  islands  to 
die.  Now  they  are  taken  away,  Spain  has  already 
begun  to  regain  her  lost  place  among  the  nations. 
No,  senor ;  we  of  the  array  at  least  think  nothing  but 
kindness  to  your  people  for  the  relief." 

Returned  to  the  casa  de  huespedes,  the  student 
and  I  were  given  adjoining  rooms  and  saw  much  of 
Valladolid  together  before  I  took  train  the  second 
morning  after  to  Burgos.  There,  were  regulation 
*'  sights  "  in  abundance ;  on  every  hand  memories  of 
the  Cid  Campeador,  even  the  spot  where  stood  his 
dwelling  —  all  as  authentic  as  the  popular  landmarks 
of  Jerusalem.  Two  miles  or  more  out  along  the 
shallow  mill-race  that  Burgos  calls  a  river  I  visited 
the  nunnery  of  Las  Huelgas,  which  claims  for  its 
distinction  never  in  its  centuries  of  existence  to  have 
admitted  to  the  veil  less  than  a  daughter  of  the  no- 
bility. The  stroll  is  pleasant,  but  the  place,  noble 
though  it  be,  unexciting  —  at  least  outwardly.     Of 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE         249 

the  cathedral,  the  finest  in  Spain,  much  might  be  said 
—  that  has  been  often  said  before. 

It  was  in  Burgos  that  I  saw  for  the  first  time  what 
I  might  have  seen  earlier  and  frequently  had  ray 
tastes  run  that  way, — a  Spanish  cemetery.  More 
exactly  it  was  a  corpse-file,  a  perpendicular  hillside 
in  which  hundreds  of  bodies  had  been  pigeon-holed 
for  future  reference,  with  the  name  and  a  charitably 
indulgent  characterization  of  the  deceased  on  the 
end  of  his  coffin.  The  Spaniard,  with  his  supersti- 
tions, prefers  this  style  of  tomb  for  much  the  same 
reason,  it  seems,  that  the  Arab  seals  his  graves  with 
cement, —  that  the  emissaries  from  the  less  popular 
regions  may  not  bear  away  the  departed  before  the 
agents  of  the  better  and  hence  slower  realm  put  in  an 
appearance. 

The  greatest  experience  of  my  day  in  Burgos  was 
the  view  from  the  summit  of  the  hot,  dry  Cerro  de  San 
Miguel.  Not  merely  does  it  offer  a  mighty  and 
comprehensive  vista  of  half  the  stony-bare  face  of 
Castilla  Vieja,  but  a  bird's-eye  view  as  it  were  of  all 
Spain  and  her  history.  Of  the  city  spread  out  at 
one's  feet  fully  three-fourths  the  space  is  taken  up 
by  cathedral,  churches,  convents,  monasteries,  casas 
de  misericordia,  the  vast  bulk  of  the  castle,  the  bar- 
racks, the  bullring, —  all  the  countless  buildings  of 
non-producers;  while  between  them  in  the  nooks  and 
comers  wherever  a  crack  offers  are  packed  and  hud- 
dled the  hovels  of  the  mere  inhabitants.     There,  in 


250      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

plain  sight,  is  Spain's  malady.  She  is  a  land  of  non- 
producers.  Ecclesiastics,  soldiers,  useless  octroi 
guards,  beggars  rotten  with  the  notion  fostered  by 
the  omnivorous  priesthood  that  mendicancy  is  an 
honorable  profession,  make  up  almost  the  bulk  of  her 
population  of  productive  age.  Not  without  reason 
does  nomadic  Borrow  lift  up  his  clench-fisted  wail 
against  "  Batuschca." 

There  is  one  road  to  redemption  for  Spain, — 
that  she  shoot  her  priests  and  set  her  soldiers  to  work. 
As  isolated  individuals  the  merry,  dissolute  fellows 
of  the  cloth  might  be  permitted  to  live  on  as  they 
have,  and  suffer  the  natural  end  of  such  living. 
But  as  a  class  they  are  beyond  reform;  their  point 
of  view  is  so  utterly  warped  and  incorrigible,  they 
have  grown  so  pestiferous  with  laziness  and  "  graft " 
that  there  is  no  other  remedy,  "  no  hay  otro 
remedio "  as  the  Spaniard  himself  would  say  could 
his  throttled  mind  cast  off  the  rubbish  of  superstition 
and  cant  for  one  clear  thought.  Let  him  who  pro- 
tests that  they  are  teachers  of  the  youth  go  once  and 
see  what  they  teach, —  the  vapid,  senseless  lies  about 
**  saints  "  so  far  from  truth  as  to  be  an  abomination, 
80  far  above  the  possible  aspirations  and  attainments 
of  real  humanity  as  to  force  the  rising  generations 
from  very  hopelessness  of  imitation  to  lose  heart  and 
sink  to  iniquity  as  the  priesthood  has  done  before 
them.  Or  are  there  some  who  still  credit  them  with 
feeding  the  poor.''     A  high  praise,  indeed,  exactly 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE  251 

equal  to  that  due  the  footpad  who  refunds  his  victim 
carfare  that  he  may  be  the  more  quickly  rid  of  him. 

Therein  lies  the  chief  weakness  of  Spain.  It  is  not 
because  she  is  ruled  by  a  slender  youth  chosen  by  the 
accident  of  birth  rather  than  by  a  more  portly  man 
chosen  more  or  less  by  his  f eUow-citizens ;  not  be- 
cause her  religion  happens  to  be  that  of  Rome  rather 
than  the  austerities  of  Calvin  or  the  fatalism  of  Mo- 
hammed ;  not  because  her  national  sport  is  a  bit  more 
dramatically  brutal  than  that  of  other  lands;  not 
because  her  soil  is  dry  and  stony  and  her  rains  and 
rivers  slight;  not  because  her  people  are  decadent, 
her  human  stock  run  down  —  I  have  plowed  in  the 
sea  in  the  foregoing  pages  if  I  have  not  made  it  clear 
that  her  real  manhood,  the  workman,  the  peasant,  the 
arriero,  the  muscle  and  sinew  of  the  nation,  are  as 
hardy,  toilsome  and  all-enduring  as  the  world  har- 
bors. But  in  the  long  centuries  of  warfare  her  atten- 
tion was  drawn  away  from  internal  affairs,  she  fell 
among  thieves  within,  and  the  force  of  example,  the 
helplessness  of  the  individual  drove  her  people  in  the 
line  of  least  resistance, — to  become  thieves  too,  na- 
tionally, officially,  until  mad  grab-what-you-can-and- 
the-devil-grab-the-ungrabbing  has  her  by  the  throat 
gasping  for  life.  If  she  is  not  to  sink  down  for 
the  vultures  of  the  nations  to  pick  clean  of  her 
meager  scraps  of  flesh  there  must  arise  within  her 
boundaries  a  man,  a  movement,  a  sweeping  change 
that  shall  cast  off  the  burden  of  precedent  and  turn 


252      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

her  officials  to  doing  honestly  with  all  their  might 
what  now  they  do  with  all  their  might  dishonestly. 
She  must  regain  confidence  in  the  necessity  and  preva- 
lence of  honesty.  She  must  learn  that  patent  yet 
rarely  comprehended  truth  that  work  and  work  only 
is  the  real  source  of  life;  she  must  cease  to  be  the 
sworn  enemy  of  the  innovator,  thinking  her  ways 
best  and  those  of  the  rest  of  the  world  abnormal,  un- 
able to  see  a  yard  beyond  her  national  boundaries, 
scorning  all  ideas  and  arguments  from  the  outside 
like  the  most  hide-bound  of  Orientals. 

The  next  afternoon  found  me  in  Vitoria,  in  the 
land  of  the  Basque;  yet  another  kind  of  Spain. 
Vitoria  is  a  city  of  to-day,  clean,  bustling,  almost 
American  in  her  streets  and  architecture  and  the  wide- 
awake air  of  the  Va<scongado.  The  boina  —  round 
cap  without  visor  and  the  end  of  a  string  for  tas- 
sel —  had  all  at  once  become  universal,  worn,  like  the 
fez  in  Damascus,  by  every  age  and  grade  of  man  from 
bootblack  to  mayor.  So  pleasing  was  this  prosaic 
city  that  even  though  her  prices  were  high  I  loitered 
in  her  shade  until  the  next  afternoon  before  seeking 
out  the  highway  to  Bilbao. 

There  lay  sixty-seven  kilometers  to  the  seaport,  a 
half  of  which  I  hoped  to  cover  before  halting  for  the 
night.  For  on  the  following  day  Bilbao  was  to  cele- 
brate in  honor  of  the  king.  The  way  led  me 
through  a  country  fertile  for  all  its  stoniness,  made 
8o  by  the  energy  and  diligence  of  the  Basque,  whose 


THE  LAND  OF  TfiE  BASQUE  253 

strong  features,  bold  curved  nose,  piercing  eyes  and 
sturdy  form  was  to  be  seen  on  every  hand.  With  the 
southern  Spaniard  this  new  race  had  almost  noth- 
ing in  common,  and  though  as  serious  of  deportment 
as  the  gallego  there  was  neither  his  bashfulness  nor 
stupidity.  The  Castilian  spoken  in  the  region  was 
excellent,  the  farming  implements  of  modem  manu- 
facture and  the  methods  of  the  husbandman  thousands 
of  years  ahead  of  Andalusia. 

As  the  day  was  fading  I  began  to  clamber  my  way 
upward  into  the  mountains  that  rose  high  in  the 
darkening  sky  ahead.  The  night  grew  to  one  of 
the  blackest,  the  heavens  being  overcast;  but  he  who 
marches  on  Into  the  darkness  without  contact  with 
artificial  light  may  still  see  almost  plainly.  It  was 
two  hours,  perhaps,  after  nightfall,  and  the  road  was 
winding  ever  higher  around  the  shoulder  of  a  mam- 
moth peak,  its  edge  a  sheer  precipice  above  unfathom- 
able depths,  when  suddenly  I  saw  a  man,  a  denser 
blackness  against  the  sea  of  obscurity,  standing 
stock-still  on  the  utmost  edge  of  the  highway. 

*'  Buenos  tardes,"  I  greeted  in  a  low  voice,  almost 
afraid  that  a  hearty  tone  would  send  him  toppling 
backward  to  his  death. 

He  neither  answered  nor  moved.     I  stepped  closer. 

"  You  have  rather  a  dangerous  position,  verdad, 
senor?  " 

Still  he  stared  motionless  at  me  through  the  dark- 
ness.    Could    he    be    some    sleep-walker?     I    moved 


254      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

quietly  forward  and,  thrusting  out  a  hand,  touched 
him  on  the  sleeve.  It  was  hard  as  if  frozen!  For 
an  instant  I  recoiled,  then  with  a  sudden  instinctive 
movement  passed  a  hand  quickly  and  lightly  over  his 
face.  Was  I  dreaming?  That,  too,  was  hard  and 
cold.  I  sprang  back  and,  rummaging  hastily 
through  my  pockets,  found  one  broken  match.  The 
wind  was  rushing  up  from  the  bottomless  gulf  below. 
I  struck  a  light,  holding  it  in  the  hollow  of  ray  hand, 
and  in  the  instant  before  it  was  blown  out  I  caught 
a  few  words  of  an  inscription  on  a  pedestal : 

"  ERECTED    TO    THE   MEM 

THROWN    OVER    THIS    PRECIPICE 

BANDITS NIGHT    OP *' 

and  before  I  had  made  out  date  or  name  I  was  again 
in  darkness. 

Over  the  summit,  on  a  lower,  less  wind-swept  level, 
I  came  upon  a  long  mining  town  scattered  on  either 
side  of  the  highway.  I  dropped  in  at  a  wineshop 
and  bespoke  supper  and  lodging.  A  dish  of  the  now 
omnipresent  bacalao  was  set  before  me,  but  for  a  time 
the  keeper  showed  strong  disinclination  to  house  a 
wandering  stranger  falling  upon  him  at  this  ad- 
vanced hour. 

The  yoimg  woman  who  served  me  at  table  and  an- 
swered the  demands  for  wine  of  the  half-dozen  youth- 
ful miners  about  me  seemed  strangely  out  of  place 
in    such    surroundings.     Nothing  was    plainer   than 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE         255 

that  she  was  not  of  the  barmaid  type.  One  would 
have  said  rather  the  convent- reared  daughter  of  some 
well-to-do  merchant  or  large  farmer.  This  surmise 
turned  out  to  be  close  to  the  truth.  When  the  carous- 
ing miners  had  drifted  into  the  night  and  I,  by  dint 
of  talking  and  acting  my  best  Castillan,  had  found 
my  way  into  the  good  graces  of  the  family,  I  heard 
the  girl's  story  —  for  rightly  approached  the 
Spaniard  is  easily  led  to  talk  of  his  private  affairs. 
Her  father  had  been  the  principal  shop-keeper  of  the 
mining  town,  and  had  died  a  few  weeks  before.  His 
debts  were  heavy  and  when  all  claims  had  been  set- 
tled there  remained  to  his  orphaned  daughter  five 
hundred  pesetas. 

"  But,"  I  cried,  "  five  hundred  pesetas !  It  is  a 
fortune,  sefiorlta,  in  Spain.  You  could  have  started 
a  shop,  or  lived  well  until  the  novio  appeared." 

**  Jesus  Maria !  "  cried  the  girl,  looking  at  me  with 
wondering  eyes.  "  Do  you  forget  purgatory  ?  For 
the  repose  of  my  father's  soul  five  hundred  masses 
must  be  said;  no  less,  the  cura  himself  told  me;  and 
each  mass  costs  a  peseta.  Then  I  have  come  to  work 
here." 

There  was  that  in  the  air  next  morning  that  re- 
minded me,  as  I  wound  down  into  a  wooded,  well- 
peopled  valley,  that  summer  was  drawing  toward  its 
close.  The  day  grew  quickly  warm,  however.  In  the 
knowledge  that  the  king  was  sojourning  in  the  city 
upon  which  I  was  marching,  I  was  fully  prepared  to 


256      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

endure  long  catechizing  and  examination  by  guardias 
civiles.  My  wonder  was  not  slight,  therefore,  when 
I  was  suffered  to  pass  through  one,  two,  three  vil- 
lages without  being  once  challenged. 

But  the  expected  meeting  came  at  last  and  quite 
made  up  for  the  lack  of  others.  The  third  village 
lay  already  behind  me  when  I  heard  an  authoritative 
shout  and,  turning  around,  saw  a  bareheaded  man 
of  thirty,  dressed  half  in  peasant,  half  in  village 
garb,  beckoning  to  me  with  a  commanding  gesture  to 
return.  Fancying  him  some  wily  shop-keeper,  I 
swung  on  my  heel  and  set  off  again.  He  shouted 
loudly,  and  racing  after  me,  caught  me  by  an  arm. 
I  shook  him  off  with  an  indignation  that  sent  him 
spinning  half  across  the  highway.  Instead  of  re- 
treating he  sprang  at  me  again  and  we  should  cer- 
tainly have  been  soon  entangled  in  a  crude  perform- 
ance of  the  manly  art  had  he  not  cried  out  in  a  voice 
quaking  with  anger: 

"  Have  a  care,  senor,  in  resisting  the  law.  I  am 
a  minon.  '* 

*'  Minon ! "  I  cried,  recalling  suddenly  that  in  the 
Basque  provinces  the  national  guardias  are  reen- 
f  orced  by  local  officers  thus  named.  "  Then  why  the 
devil  don't  you  wear  your  uniform.''  How  shall  I 
know  you  are  not  a  footpad?  " 

"  I  shall  prove  that  soon  enough,"  he  replied,  still 
visibly  shaking  with  the  rage  of  a  Spaniard  whose 
**  pundonor  "  has  been  sullied. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE         257 

I  returned  with  him  to  the  casa  de  ayuntamiento, 
in  the  doorway  of  which  he  halted,  and,  examining  me 
for  concealed  weapons,  demanded  that  I  untie  my. 
knapsack.  Never  before  had  this  been  more  than 
superficially  inspected,  but  the  thoroughness  with 
which  the  angry  minon  overhauled  it,  examining  even 
my  letters  and  fingering  my  clothes-brush  over  and 
over  as  if  convinced  that  it  could  be  opened  by  some 
secret  spring,  fully  made  up  for  any  possible  care- 
lessness of  his  fellow-officers  elsewhere.  When  he 
had  lost  hope  of  finding  evidence  of  treason  he 
handed  back  my  possessions  reluctantly  and  bade  me 
with  a  scowl  the  conventional  *'  Go  with  God ; "  to 
which  I  answered,  **  Queda  V.  con  el  mismisimo  di- 
ablo  " —  but  the  thrust  was  too  subtle  for  his  bullet- 
headed  intellect. 

Toward  noon  the  green  slopes  and  cool  forests 
turned  to  a  cindered  soil  and  the  sooty  aspect  of  a 
factory  town.  I  mounted  a  last  hill  and  descended 
quickly  through  a  smoke-laden  atmosphere  into  Bil- 
bao. Here  was  the  first  entirely  modem  city  I  had 
seen  in  Spain;  one  might  easily  have  fancied  one's 
self  in  Newcastle  or  Seattle.  The  Spanish  casa  de 
huespedes  seemed  not  even  known  by  name,  and  in. 
its  place  were  only  boisterous  taverns,  smacking  of 
sea-faring  custom  and  overrun  with  the  touts  that 
feed  on  the  simple  mariner. 

As  I  sat  toward  evening  in  one  of  these  establish- 
ments, there  entered  a  man  something  over  thirty-five, 


258      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

dressed  in  bolna  and  workingman's  garb  that  showed 
but  shght  wear.  I  noted  him  only  half  consciously, 
being  at  that  moment  expressing  to  the  landlord  my 
surprise  that  the  king,  instead  of  being  in  Bilbao  as 
he  was  reported  by  the  newspapers,  was  ten  or  twelve 
miles  away  on  his  yacht  at  the  mouth  of  the  river. 
The  keeper,  a  stocky  Basque  of  much  better  parts 
than  the  average  of  his  guild,  glanced  up  from  his 
spigots  and  replied  in  a  smooth  and  pleasant  voice : 

"  Porque,  senor,  no  quiere  morir  tan  joven  —  Be- 
cause he  does  not  care  to  die  so  young." 

**  Y  con  mujer  tan  bella  y  fresca  —  And  with  a  wife 
so  beautiful  and  fresh,"  added  a  thick-set  fellow  at 
a  neighboring  table  without  looking  up  from  his 
cards. 

Love  for  Alfonso  is  not  one  of  the  characteristics 
of  the  masses  in  this  section  of  the  country. 

Meanwhile  the  newcomer,  whose  eye  had  been 
wandering  leisurely  over  the  assembly,  threaded  his 
way  half  across  the  room  to  sit  down  at  my  table.  I 
wondered  a  bit  at  the  preference,  but  certain  he  was 
no  tout,  gave  him  the  customary  greeting.  By  the 
time  I  had  accepted  a  glass  and  treated  in  turn  we 
were  exchanging  personal  information.  He  an- 
nounced himself  a  cobbler,  and  even  before  I  had 
broached  the  subject  suggested  that  he  could  find  me 
a  lodging  with  an  old  woman  above  his  shop.  This 
workroom,  when  we  reached  it,  proved  to  be  nothing 
but  a  kit  of  tools  and  a  few  strips  of  leather  scat- 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE         259 

tered  about  the  small  hallway  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
I  found  above  the  hospitality  he  had  promised,  how- 
ever, and  paying  two  night's  lodging;  in  an  un- 
uusually  pleasant  room,  descended. 

The  shoemaker  appeared  more  obliging  than  in- 
dustrious, for  he  at  once  laid  aside  the  shoe  he  was 
hammering  and  announced  that  he  was  going  to  give 
himself  the  pleasure  of  spending  the  evening  with 
me  and  of  finding  me  the  best  place  to  take  in  the 
fireworks  that  were  to  be  set  ofi'  in  honor  of  the  king. 
I  explained  that  it  was  rather  my  plan  to  attend  the 
city  theater,  where  I  might  both  see  that  remarkable 
personage  in  the  flesh  and  hear  one  of  Moliere's  best 
comedies  in  Spanish. 

"  There  is  more  than  time  for  both,"  replied  the 
cobbler,  and  forthwith  fell  to  extolling  the  coming 
spectacle  so  highly  that  he  came  near  to  arousing 
within  me,  too,  an  interest  in  the  fireworks. 

At  the  end  of  an  hour's  stroll  we  found  our- 
selves en  the  summit  of  a  knoll  in  the  outskirts,  in 
a  compact  sea  of  Bilbaoans  watching  a  tame  imitation 
of  a  Fourth  of  July  celebration  on  the  slope  of  one 
of  the  surrounding  hills.  The  display  was,  as  I 
have  said,  in  honor  of  the  king ;  though  it  turned  out 
that  his  indiff^erent  majesty  was  at  that  moment  din- 
ing and  wining  a  company  of  fellow-sportsmen  on 
board  the  Giralda  twelve  miles  away^ 

The  cobbler  set  a  more  than  leisurely  pace  back  to 
the  city,  but  we  regained  at  length  the  bank  of  the 


260      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

river  and,  crossing  the  wooded  Paseo  Arenal,  ap- 
proached the  theater.  Before  it,  was  packed  a  vast 
and  compact  multitude  through  which  I  struggled  my 
way  to  the  entrance,  only  to  be  informed  in  the  cus- 
tomary box-office  tones  that  there  was  not  another 
ticket  to  be  had.  The  shoemaker  was  no  theater- 
goer, and  as  my  own  disappointment  was  not  over- 
whelming, we  set  out  to  fight  our  way  back  to  the 
Paseo. 

Long  before  we  had  succeeded  in  that  venturesome 
undertaking,  however,  there  burst  forth  a  sudden, 
unheralded  roar  of  uncounted  voices,  the  immense 
throng  surged  riverward  with  an  abruptness  that  all 
but  swept  us  off  our  feet,  the  thunder  of  thousands 
of  hoofs  swelled  nearer,  and  down  upon  us  rode  an 
entire  regiment  of  guardias  civiles  in  uniforms  so 
new  they  seemed  but  that  moment  to  have  left  the 
tailor,  and  astride  finer  horses  than  I  had  dreamed 
existed  in  Spain.  Straight  into  the  crowd  they 
dashed,  headlong,  at  full  canter,  like  cowboys  into 
a  drove  of  steers,  sweeping  all  before  them,  scatter- 
ing luckless  individuals  in  all  directions,  and  com- 
pletely surrounding  the  theater  in  solid  phalanx. 
Before  I  had  recovered  breath  there  arose  another 
mighty  shout,  and,  some  three  hundred  more  horse- 
men, with  a  richly  caparisoned  carriage  in  their  midst, 
dashed  through  the  throng  from  a  landing-stage  on 
the  river  bank  behind  us  to  the  door  of  the  theater. 
I  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  slight  figure  in  a 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE  261 

rakish  overcoat,  a  burst  of  music  sounded  from  the 
theater,  and  died  as  suddenly  away  as  the  doors  closed 
behind  the  royal  arrival.  Again  the  cavalry  charged, 
driving  men,  women  and  children  pellmell  back  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  building  and,  forming  a  yet 
wider  circle  around  it,  settled  down  to  sit  their  horses 
like  statues  until  the  play  should  be  ended. 

When  my  wonder  had  somewhat  subsided  there 
came  upon  me  an  all  but  uncontrollable  desire  to 
shout  with  laughter.  The  ludicrousness,  the  ridicu- 
lousness of  it  all!  A  vast  concourse  of  humanity 
driven  helter-skelter  like  as  many  cattle,  scores  of 
persons  jostled  and  bruised,  thirteen  hundred  of  the 
most  able-bodied  men  In  Spain  to  sit  motionless  on 
horseback  around  a  theater  late  into  the  night,  all 
for  the  mere  protection  of  one  slight  youth  whose 
equal  was  easily  to  be  found  in  every  town  or  village 
of  the  land !  Truly  this  institution  of  kingship  is  as 
humorous  a  hoax  as  has  been  played  upon  mankind 
since  man  was. 

A  hoax  on  all  concerned.  For  the  incumbent  him- 
self, the  slender  youth  inside,  who  must  spend  his 
brief  span  of  years  amid  such  mummery,  commands 
of  himself  a  bit  of  mild  admiration.  I  fell  to  wonder- 
ing what  he  would  give  for  the  right  to  wander 
freely  and  unnoticed  all  a  summer's  day  along  the 
open  highway.  Let  him  who  can  imagine  himself 
bom  a  king,  discovering  as  early  as  such  notions  can 
penetrate   to    his    infant    intellect    that    his    fellow- 


262      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

mortals  have  placed  him  high  on  a  pedestal,  have 
given  him  even  without  the  asking  power,  riches, 
and  almost  reverence  as  a  superior  being,  when  at 
heart  he  knows  full  well  he  is  of  quite  the  same  clay 
as  they ;  and  he  may  well  ask  himself  whether  he  would 
have  grown  up  even  as  manly  as  the  youth  who  goes 
by  the  name  of  Alfonso  XIII.  Recalling  that  for- 
mer kings  of  Spain  could  not  be  touched  by  other  than 
a  royal  finger,  we  may  surely  grant  common  sense 
to  this  sovereign  who  dances  uncondescendingly  with 
daughters  of  the  middle  class,  who  chats  freely  with 
bullfighters,  peasants,  or  apple-women.  Pleasing, 
too,  is  his  devil-may-carelessness.  On  this  same 
night,  for  instance,  after  reboarding  his  yacht,  he 
took  it  suddenly  into  his  mad  young  head  to  return 
at  once  through  this,  his  most  hostile  province,  to  his 
queen.  At  one  in  the  morning  he  was  rowed  ashore 
with  one  companion,  stepped  into  his  automobile, 
himself  playing  chauffeur,  and  tore  away  through 
Bilbao  and  a  hundred  miles  along  the  craggy  coast 
to  San  Sebastian.  It  is  not  hard  to  guess  what 
might  have  happened  had  he  punctured  a  tire  among 
those  stony  mountains  and  been  chanced  upon  by 
a  homing  band  of  peasants  brave  with  wine. 

Musing  all  which  I  turned  to  address  the  cob- 
bler and  found  him  gone.  The  crowd  was  slowly 
melting  away.  I  sat  down  in  the  Paseo  and  waited  an 
hour,  but  my  erstwhile  companion  did  not  reappear. 
When  I  descended  from  my  lodging  next  morning 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BASQUE         263 

there  remained  not  a  trace  of  his  "  shop  "  at  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  Had  the  village  minon  done  me  the 
honor  of  telegraphing  my  description  to  the  seaport, 
or  was  my  road-worn  garb  the  livery  of  suspicion? 
This  only  I  know;  when,  that  Sunday  evening  after 
my  return  from  a  glimpse  of  the  open  sea,  I  asked 
my  hostess  whether  her  fellow  renter  were  really  a 
shoemaker,  she  screwed  up  her  parchment-like 
features  into  a  smile  and  answered: 

"  Si,  senor,  one  of  the  shoemakers  of  his  majesty." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   DESCENT   INTO    AKAG(Jn 

THERE  was  an  unwonted  excitement  in  the  air 
when  I  boarded  the  train  next  morning  for  the 
longest  unbroken  ride  of  my  Spanish  journey.  Per- 
nales,  the  anachronism,  the  twentieth-century  bandit 
of  the  environs  of  Cordoba,  had  fallen.  Aboard  the 
train  newspapers  were  as  numerous  as  on  the  New 
York  **  Elevated  "  at  a  similar  hour,  I  bought  one 
and  was  soon  lost  like  the  rest  in  the  adventures  of 
this  last  defier  of  the  mighty  guardia  civil. 

The  story  was  simple.  Two  evenings  before, 
about  the  time  I  had  been  yawning  over  the  king's 
fireworks,  Pemales  had  met  a  village  arriero  among 
the  foothills  of  his  retreat,  and  asked  him  some  ques- 
tion about  the  road.  The  rustic  gave  him  the  de- 
sired information,  but  guessing  with  whom  he  was 
speaking,  had  raced  away,  once  he  was  out  of  sight, 
as  fast  as  he  could  drive  his  ass  before  him,  to  carry 
his  suspicions  to  the  village  alcalde.  The  rest  was 
commonplace.  A  dozen  guardias  stalked  the  un- 
suspecting bandolero  among  the  hills,  and  coming 
upon  him  toward  sunrise,  brought  his  unsanctioned 

career  abruptly  to  a  close. 

264 


liic  Itoman  walls  of  Leon 


The  land  of  tlie  boina 


Alfonso  XIII  at  a  picnic 


A  DESCENT  INTO  ARAGON  265 

'*  Our  special  correspondent "  had  dismally  failed 
to  cast  over  his  account  the  glamour  of  romance,  but 
in  compensation  had  taken  a  reporter's  care  to  give 
the  precise  point  in  the  right  temple  where  the  ball 
had  entered,  with  the  exact  dimensions  of  the  orifice, 
as  well  as  the  hfe  story  of  the  hero  who  had  bored 
it.  Nay,  with  almost  American  haste  and  resource- 
fulness the  paper  printed  a  full-length  portrait  of 
the  successful  hunter  —  or  one  at  least  of  a  man  who 
could  not  have  been  vastly  different  in  appearance, 
in  a  uniform  that  was  certainly  very  similar.  Alas! 
The  good  old  days  of  the  bandit  and  the  contraban- 
dista  are  forever  gone  in  Spain ;  the  humdrum  era  of 
the  civil  guard  is  come.  Females'  is  but  another 
story  of  a  man  bom  a  century  too  late. 

All  day  long  as  we  toiled  and  twisted  over  the 
Cantabrian  range  and  descended  southward,  this  only 
was  the  topic  of  conversation  of  all  grades  and  sexes 
of  travelers.  An  hour's  halt  at  Miranda  and  we 
creaked  on  along  the  bank  of  Spain's  greatest  river, 
the  Ebro,  talking  still  of  bandoleros  and  the  regret 
of  their  passing.  Slowly  the  green  tinge  in  the  land- 
scape faded  away  and  in  its  place  came  reddish  cliiFs 
and  a  sun-seared  and  all  but  desert  country  spread- 
ing away  from  either  bank  of  the  red-dyed  river, 
sterile  rolling  plains  relieved  only  by  small  oases  of 
fertility  and  isolated  and  in  all  probability  bigoted 
villages  standing  colorless  on  colorless  hillsides.  As 
central  Spain  may  be  likened  to  rocky  Judea,  so  this 


266      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

resembles  in  some  degree  Egypt,  with  the  Ebro  as  the 
Nile. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  I  arrived  in  Sara- 
gossa  and,  crossing  the  broad  river  by  the  Puente  de 
Piedra,  found  myself  in  one  of  the  most  labyrinthian 
cities  of  Spain.  But  so  practiced  had  I  grown  in 
such  quest  that  in  less  than  an  hour  I  had  engaged 
accommodation  at  my  own  price,  which  by  this  time 
had  descended  to  two  and  a  half  pesetas. 

The  **  sight "  par  excellence  of  Saragossa  is  of 
course  her  "  Virgen  del  Pilar."  The  story  runs  that 
Santiago,  who  is  none  other  than  Saint  James,  while 
wandering  about  Spain,  as  he  was  wont  to  ramble  in 
various  comers  of  the  earth,  was  favored  one  evening 
by  a  call  from  the  Mother  of  Christ,  who,  during  all 
their  little  chat,  stood  on  the  top  of  a  stone  pillar. 
That  the  tale  is  true  there  seems  little  chance  for 
doubt,  for  they  have  the  pillar  yet ;  and  it  is  over  this 
that  has  been  erected  the  vast  cathedral  to  which  flock 
thousands  of  pilgrims  during  every  month  of  the  year. 

I  repaired  to  it  early,  but  was  soon  turned  melan- 
choly with  the  recollection  of  Puck's  profound  saying 
anent  the  folly  of  mankind.  The  interior  of  the  edi- 
6ce  is  as  impressive  as  that  of  an  empty  warehouse. 
Under  the  main  dome  is  a  large  chapel  screaming  with 
riches,  in  the  back  of  which,  on  her  pillar,  stands  the 
Virgin  —  turned  to  black,  half -decayed  wood  — 
dressed  in  more  thousands  of  dollars'  worth  of  gold 
and  silver,  of  resplendent  robes  and  vociferous  gaudi- 


A  DESCENT  INTO  ARAGON  267 

ness  than  god  Juggernaut  of  India  ever  possessed  at 
the  height  of  his  influence.  Before  It  worshipers  are 
always  kneeling.  In  the  back  wall  of  the  chapel  is  an 
opening  through  which  one  can  touch  the  pillar  — 
and  find  a  cup-shaped  hole  worn  in  it  by  such  action 
during  the  centuries.  I  sat  down  on  a  bench  near  the 
far-famed  orifice,  and  for  close  upon  an  hour  watched 
the  unbroken  procession  file  past.  Beggar  women, 
rag-pickers,  ladies  of  wealth,  cankerous  old  men, 
merchants,  city  sports,  lawyers  —  Saragossa  is  the 
one  city  of  Spain  where  even  men  go  to  church  — 
every  grade  and  variety  of  Aragonese  pressed  close 
upon  the  heels  one  of  another,  each  bowing  down  as 
he  passed  to  kiss  the  hole  deeper  into  the  pillar.  At 
bottom  the  difference  is  slight  indeed  between  the  re- 
ligion of  the  Spaniard  and  that  of  the  Hindu. 

In  the  city  swarms  a  hungry,  ragged  people,  more 
often  than  not  without  shoes,  yet  one  and  all  with 
the  proverbial  haughty  pride  and  somber  mood  of 
Aragon  in  face  and  bearing,  stiff-shouldered,  bris- 
tling with  a  touch-me-not- with-a-pole  expression. 
Here,  too,  may  still  be  found,  especially  among  the 
peasants  from  the  further  districts,  the  old  provin- 
cial costume, —  knee  breeches,  a  jacket  reaching 
barely  to  the  waist,  and  a  red  cloth  wound  about  the 
head. 

Tiring  of  such  things,  there  is  a  pleasant  prome- 
nade along  the  banks  of  the  Ebro,  whence  one  will 
drift  naturally  through  the  Portillo  gate  where  the 


268      FOUR  jMONTPIS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

"  flying  Gaul  was  foil'd  by  a  woman's  hand."  It  is 
startling  to  find  the  settings  of  two  such  world-famed 
dramas  so  close  together,  but  from  the  gate  one  has 
only  to  saunter  a  few  yards  along  the  Madrid  high- 
way to  come  upon  the  weather-battered  Aljaferia 
of  "  Trovatore "  fame.  To-day  it  is  a  barracks. 
Within  its  towers,  through  now  unbarred  windows, 
may  be  seen  soldiers  polishing  their  spurs  and  mus- 
kets, humming  now  and  then  a  snatch  of  popular 
song;  but  one  may  wait  in  vain  to  hear  some  tuneful 
prisoner  strike  up  the  expected  "  miserere." 

There  is  one  stroll  m  Saragossa  that  I  would  com- 
mend to  the  wanderer  who  finds  pleasure  in  gaining 
elevations  whence  he  may  look  down,  as  it  were,  on 
the  world.  It  is  out  along  the  Canal  Imperial,  past 
the  swoUen-paunched  statue  of  its  sponsor  Pignatelli, 
and  across  the  Huerva ;  then  winding  lazily  southwest 
and  upward  the  stroller  comes  suddenly  out  on  the 
crown  of  a  bald  hillock.  There,  below  him  in  its  flat 
valley,  spreads  all  Saragossa,  far  enough  away  to 
lose  the  crassness  of  detail,  yet  distinct,  the  two 
finished  towers  of  the  Pilar  rising  above  it  like  mina- 
rets, the  whole  girded  by  the  green  huerta,  and  be- 
yond and  all  around  the  desert  in  gashed  and  gnarled 
hills  like  the  Libyan  range  of  another  continent. 
Here  I  lounged  until  the  setting  sun,  peering  over 
my  shoulder,  cast  the  radiant  flush  of  evening  on  the 
city  below,  which  gradually  fading  away  was  at 
length  efi'aced  in  the  night,  its  sounds  mingling  to- 


A  DESCENT  INTO  ARAGON  269 

gether  in  a  sort  of  music  that  drifted  up  to  me  long 
after  the  scene  itself  had  wholly  disappeared. 

I  descended  for  supper.  It  is  the  lot  of  man  that 
he  has  no  sooner  climbed  to  a  height  where  he  may 
look  down  calmly  on  the  scramble  of  life  than  he  must 
again  plunge  down  into  it  to  eat  —  or  to  earn  more 
bread.  To-morrow  I  must  set  my  face  toward  the 
frontier,  toward  New  York  and  a  return  to  labor. 

On  my  way  to  the  five-o'clock  train  next  morning 
I  passed  through  Saragossa's  vast  covered  market  and 
halted  to  lay  in  a  last  supply  of  figs.  The  cheery  old 
woman  who  sold  them  grasped  my  fifteen  centimes 
tightly  in  her  hand  and  solemnly  made  with  it  the 
sign  of  the  cross.  I  expressed  surprise,  and  a  mis- 
giving lest  I  had  unwittingly  parted  with  coppers  pos- 
sessing peculiar  virtues. 

**  Como,  senor ! "  she  cried,  in  wonder  at  my  igno- 
rance. "  It  is  the  first  money  of  the  day.  If  I  do 
not  say  a  paternoster  with  it  I  may  sit  here  until 
nightfall  without  selling  another  perrito-worth,  you 
may  be  sure." 

The  train  labored  back  along  the  Ebro  to  Caste- 
jon,  where  I  changed  cars  and  journeyed  northward, 
every  click  of  the  wheels  seeming  to  cry  out  that  my 
Spanish  summer  was  nearing  its  end.  At  high  noon 
I  descended  in  a  dusty  plain  before  the  sheer  face  of 
the  rock  on  which  stands  Pamplona  of  Navarre. 
When  I  had  climbed  into  the  city  I  inquired  of  the 
first  policeman  for  a  modest  casa  de  huespedes.     He 


270      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

rubbed  his  head  a  moment  and  set  off  with  me  along 
the  street,  chatting  sociably  as  we  went.  Soon  we 
came  upon  another  officer,  to  whom  the  first  repeated 
my  question.  He  scratched  his  head  a  moment  and 
fell  in  beside  us,  babbling  cheerily.  Fully  a  half-mile 
beyond  we  accosted  a  third  officer.  He  rasped  his 
close-shaven  poll  yet  another  moment  and  joined  us 
in  the  quest,  adding  a  new  stock  of  anecdotes.  Here 
was  courtesy  extraordinary,  even  for  Spain.  Had 
the  police  force  of  Pamplona  discovered  in  me  some 
prince  incognito,  or  was  mine  to  be  the  role  of  the 
rolling  pancake?  We  rambled  on,  but  without  suc- 
cess, for  not  another  officer  could  we  find  in  all  our 
circuit  of  the  city.  It  was  certainly  close  upon  an 
hour  after  my  original  inquiry,  and  something  like 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  same  spot,  that  we  entered 
a  side  street  and  mounted,  still  in  quartet,  to  a  cheap 
but  homelike  boarding-house  high  up  in  an  aged 
building.  The  courtesy  was  quickly  explained.  The 
landlady,  having  expressed  her  deep  gratitude  for  be- 
ing brought  a  new  guest,  begged  each  of  the  officers 
to  do  her  the  favor  of  accepting  a  glass  of  wine. 
They  smacked  their  lips  over  it,  exchanged  with  the 
household  the  customary  salutations  and  banter,  and 
sauntered  back  to  their  beats. 

When  I  had  eaten,  I  descended  for  a  turn  about 
the  city  with  the  uncle  of  my  grateful  hostess,  a 
mountain-hardened  Basque  of  sixty,  in  the  universal 
boina,  who  had  but  recently  retired  from  a  lifetime 


A  DESCENT  INTO  ARAGON  271 

of  rocky  hillside  farming.  Of  both  his  province  of 
Navarre  and  of  himself  he  talked  freely  until  sud- 
denly my  tongue  stumbled  upon  some  question  of 
military  conscription.  He  fell  at  once  silent,  his  jaws 
stiffened,  and  into  his  face  came  the  reflection  of  a 
bitter  sadness.  For  the  Basques  are  by  no  means 
reconciled  to  the  loss  of  their  cherished  fueros,  or 
special  political  privileges.  In  silence  the  sturdy  old 
man  led  the  way  half  across  the  city  to  one  of  her 
gates  and,  climbing  a  knoll  that  gave  a  good  view 
of  the  surrounding  fortifications,  said  in  cheerless 
tones : 

**  Don  Henrico,  we  have  here  the  strongest  city 
walls  in  Spain.  But  what  use  are  they  now  against 
the  king's  modern  artillery?  No  hay  remedio.  We 
must  serve  in  his  armies." 

As  we  threaded  our  way  slowly  back  to  the  board- 
ing-house I  halted  at  a  money  changer's  to  buy  a 
twenty-franc  piece.  The  transaction  left  me  only  a 
handful  of  coppers  in  Spanish  currency,  and  I  went 
early  to  bed  lest  there  be  not  enough  remaining  to 
carry  me  out  of  the  country. 

On  a  glorious  clear  September  morning  I  turned 
my  back  on  Spain  and  set  forth  from  Pamplona  to 
tramp  over  the  Pyrenees  by  the  pass  of  Roncesvalles, 
being  just  uncertain  enough  of  the  road  to  lend  zest 
to  the  undertaking.  At  the  edge  of  the  plain  to  the 
northward  of  the  city  a  highway  began  to  wind  its 
way  upward  along  the  bank  of  a  young  river,  not 


272      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

laboriously,  but  steadily  rising.  Habitations  were 
rare.  Late  in  the  morning  a  spot  above  whirling 
rapids  in  shaded  solitude  suggested  a  plunge ;  but  as 
I  pulled  oif  my  coat  a  sound  fell  on  my  ear  and,  look- 
ing across  the  stream,  I  saw  a  half-dozen  women  kneel- 
ing on  the  bank  and  staring  curiously  across  at  me. 
When  I  retreated,  they  laughed  heartily  and  fell  once 
more  to  pounding  away  at  their  laundry-work  on  the 
stones. 

Some  distance  higher  I  found  another  pool  in 
which,  by  rolling  over  and  over,  I  won  the  afterglow 
of  a  real  swim.  Sharper  ascents  succeeded,  though 
still  none  steep.  I  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  Tyrol- 
ian  scenery  of  forest  and  deep-cut  valleys,  and  among 
up-to-date  people  —  the  farming  implements  being  of 
modem  type  and  the  smallest  villages  having  electric 
lights  run  by  power  from  the  mountain  streams. 
Every  fellow-mortal,  young  or  old,  as  is  usual  in 
mountain  regions,  gave  me  greeting,  not  with  the 
familiar  '*  Vaya !  "  nor  the  '*  Buenos !  "  of  Galicia, 
but  with  "Adios ! "  which  seemed  here  to  mean  much 
more  than  the  grammatical  "  Grood-by."  In  the 
place  of  guardias  civiles  were  carabineros  in  a  pro- 
vincial uniform,  whose  advances,  if  less  warm  and 
companionable,  were  none  the  less  kindly. 

Toward  evening  the  road  flowed  up  into  a  broad, 
oblong  meadow,  ankle-deep  in  greenest  grass,  musical 
with  the  sound  of  cow-bells,  across  which  it  drifted  as 
if  content  to  rest  for  a  time  on  its  oars  before  taking 


A  DESCENT  INTO  ARAGON  273 

the  final  climb.  The  sun  was  setting  when  I  reached 
Burguete  at  forty-four  kilometers,  station  of  the 
trans-Pyrenean  diligence  and  the  point  that  I  had 
been  assured  I  should  do  well  to  reach  in  a  two-day's 
walk.  But  I  felt  as  imwearied  as  at  the  outset;  the 
towers  of  Roncesvalles  stood  plainly  visible  five  kilo- 
meters ahead  across  the  green  tableland.  I  rambled 
on  in  the  cool  of  evening  and  by  dark  was  housed  in 
a  good  inn  of  the  mountain  village. 

When  the  supper  hour  arrived,  the  landlord  stepped 
across  to  me  to  ask  whether  I  would  eat  as  a  guest 
or  as  a  member  of  the  family.  I  inquired  what  the 
distinction  might  be. 

"  No  difference,"  he  answered,  "  except  that  as  a 
member  of  the  family  you  pay  a  peseta  upon  leaving, 
and  as  a  guest  you  pay  two." 

It  was  of  course  en  famille  that  I  supped,  and 
right  royally,  at  a  board  merry  with  good-humored 
peasants  and  arrieros  rather  than  in  the  silent, 
gloomy  company  of  a  half-dozen  convention-ridden 
travelers  in  an  adjoining  room, 

Roncesvalles  would  have  been  an  unequaled  spot 
in  which  to  pass  an  autumn  week,  roaming  in  the 
forest  glens  of  the  mountains,  dreaming  of  the  heroic 
days  of  Roland.  But  the  hour  of  reckoning  and  of 
New  York  was  near  at  hand.  Of  all  sensations  I 
most  abhor  the  feeling  that  I  mmt  be  in  a  given 
place  at  a  given  time. 

A  short  climb  through  wooded  hillsides  strewn  with 

i8 


274      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

gigantic  rocks  and  I  found  myself  all  at  once  and  un- 
expectedly on  the  very  summit  of  the  Pyrenees.  In 
no  sense  had  the  ascent  been  toilsome,  vastly  less  so 
than  several  scrambles  of  two  or  three  hours'  dura- 
tion between  Lugo  and  Oviedo.  From  the  French 
side,  no  doubt,  it  would  have  been  far  more  of  a  task. 
Gazing  northward  I  recognized  for  the  first  time  that 
I  stood  high  indeed  above  the  common  level  of  the 
earth.  Miles  below,  blue  as  the  sea,  lay  France,  the 
forested  mountains  at  my  feet  rolling  themselves  out 
into  hills,  the  hills  growing  lower  and  lower  and 
spreading  away  into  the  far,  far  distance  like  an- 
other world.  The  modem  world  —  and  I  was  all  at 
once  assailed  with  a  desire  to  ask  what  it  had  been  do- 
ing in  all  the  days  I  had  been  gone.  Then  the  high- 
way seized  me  in  its  grasp  and  hurried  me  away 
Sown,  racing,  rushing,  almost  stumbling,  so  fast  I 
was  forced  to  break  away  from  it  and  clamber  down 
at  my  own  pace  through  dense  unpeopled  forests,  to 
fall  upon  it  again  far  below  and  stalk  with  it  at  lunch- 
time  into  the  village  of  Val  Carlos.  Yet  another 
hour's  descent  and  I  crossed  a  small  stream  into  the 
little  hamlet  of  Ameguy ;  the  long-forgotten  figure  of 
a  French  gendarme  slouched  forth  from  a  hut  to 
shout  as  I  passed,  "  Anything  dutiable,  monsieur?  " 
and  my  Spanish  journey  was  among  the  things  that 
have  been. 


CHAPTER  XV 

EMIGEATING    HOMEWARD 

IN  reality  almost  as  much  as  in  fancy  I  had  en- 
tered another  world.  It  is  chiefly  in  retrospect 
that  a  journey  through  Spain,  as  through  Palestine, 
brings  home  to  the  traveler  the  fuU  difference  be- 
tween those  gaunt  regions  of  the  earth  and  the  world 
to  which  he  is  accustomed.  Here  the  change  was 
likft  that  from  a  squatter's  cabin,  a  bachelor's  quarters 
to  a  residence  of  opulence. 

Arrived  while  the  day  was  still  in  its  prime  at  St. 
Jean  Pied  de  Port,  I  found  myself  undecided  how  to 
continue.  The  rescuing  forty  dollars  awaited  me  — 
postal  errors  precluded  —  in  Bordeaux;  but  Baed- 
eker having  now  become  mere  lumber,  I  had  no  means 
of  knowing  which  of  two  routes  to  follow  to  that  city. 
I  halted  to  make  inquiries  of  an  old  Spaniard  drows- 
ing before  his  shop  —  so  like  one  of  mine  own  peo- 
ple he  seemed  amid  this  babble  of  French.  But 
though  he  received  me  with  Castihan  courtesy  he 
could  give  me  no  real  information.  Under  the  awn- 
ing of  a  cafe  a  hundred  paces  beyond,  two  well- 
dressed  men  were  sipping  cooling  drinks.  Thei» 
-     275 


276      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

touring-car  stood  before  the  building,  and  not  fat 
away,  in  the  shade  of  an  overhanging  shoulder  of  the 
Pyrenees,  loitered  a  chauffeur,  in  all  the  accustomed 
accoutrements  of  that  genus.  He  had  the  appear- 
ance of  an  obliging  fellow.  I  strolled  across  to  him, 
hastily  summoning  up  my  dormant  French. 

"  Monsieur,"  I  began,  "  vous  me  pardonnerez, 
mais  pour  aller  d'ici  a  Bordeaux  vaut  il  mieux  passer 
par  Bayonne  ou  bien  par  Mont  de — " 

He  was  grinning  at  me  sheepishly  and  shifting 
from  one  leg  to  the  other.  As  I  paused  he  blurted 
out: 

«  Aw,  I  don't  talk  no  French !  " 

**  Then  I  suppose  it  '11  have  to  be  English,"  I  an- 
swered, in  the  first  words  of  that  language  I  had 
spoken  in  ninety-six  days  —  and  in  truth  they  came 
with  difficulty. 

**  Go'  bly'  me ! "  burst  out  the  astounded  knight  of 
the  steering-wheel.  "  'Ow  ever  'd  you  get  in  this 
comer  o'  the  world?  Say,  I  ayn't  said  more  'n  *  yes, 
sir  '  or  *  no,  sir '  to  their  lordships  — "  with  a  slight 
jerk  of  the  head  toward  the  men  under  the  awning 
— *^  In  so  long  I  've  bally  near  forgot  'ow.  'Ere  it 
is  Sunday  an' — " 

*'  Saturday,"  I  interrupted. 

**  Sunday,  I  say,"  repeated  the  chauffeur,  drawing 
out  a  card  on  which  were  penciled  many  crude 
crosses.     "  Ere  's  'ow  I  keep  track  — " 

**  Senora,"  I  asked,  turning  U*  a  woman  who  was 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  277 

filling  a  pitcher  at  a  hydrant  behind  me,  "  que  dia  ten- 
emos  hoy  ?  " 

Her  lip  curled  disdainfully  as  she  answered : 

"  Tiens!  Vous  me  croyez  un  de  ces  barbares-la?  " 
—  tossing  her  head  toward  the  mountain  range  be- 
hind us. 

**  Mille  pardons,"  I  laughed.  **  Force  of  habit. 
This  monsieur  and  I  are  disputing  whether  to-day  is 
Saturday  or  Sunday." 

"  Out  again  without  your  nurses ! "  she  cried  sar- 
castically.    "  Saturday,  of  course." 

"  Now  'ear  that ! "  said  the  chauffeur,  almost  tear- 
fully, when  I  interpreted.  "  'Ow  ever  can  a  man  keep 
track  of  anything  in  this  bally  country?  Say,  what 
was  that  question  you  was  tryin'  to  ask  me?  " 

"  I  'm  walking  from  Gib  to  Bordeaux,"  I  remarked 
casually,  and  repeated  my  former  inquiry.  His  ex- 
pression changed  slowly  from  incredulity  to  com- 
miseration. Suddenly  he  thrust  a  hand  into  his 
pocket. 

"  I  say,  won't  you  'ave  a  mite  of  a  lift?  Why, 
we  took  near  all  yesterday  to  come  from  that  place. 
You  couldn't  walk  there  in  a  month." 

"  No,  thanks,  I  'm  fairly  well  heeled,"  I  answered. 

"  Better  'ave  a  yellow-boy,"  he  persisted,  drawing 
out  several  English  sovereigns.  "  Lord,  you  're 
more'n  welcome,  y'know.  They  ayn't  no  bloomin* 
use  to  me  'ere ! " 

At  that  moment  I  noted  that  the  milords  under  the 


278      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

awning  had  spread  out  before  them  a  large  touring 
map,  and  I  left  the  chauffeur  gasping  at  my  audacity 
as  I  stepped  across  to  them.  The  older  was  strug- 
gling to  give  an  order  to  the  waiter,  who  crouched 
towel  on  arm  over  them.  There  is  a  strange  simi- 
larity between  a  full-grown  Briton  attempting  to 
speak  French  and  a  strong  man  playing  with  a  doll. 

"  Beg  pawdon,  gentlemen,"  I  said,  when  I  had 
helped  them  out  of  the  difficulty,  "but  would  you 
mind  my  glancing  at  your  map  ?     I  want  to  find  — " 

"  Ah  —  why,  certainly,"  gasped  one  of  the  startled 
nobles. 

But  even  with  the  chart  before  me  I  was  no  nearer 
a  decision,  for  the  two  roads  appeared  of  almost 
equal  length.  As  I  turned  away,  however,  a  poster 
on  a  nearby  wall  quickly  settled  my  plans.  It  an- 
nounced a  great  bullfight  in  Bayonne  the  next  after- 
noon, with  Quinito,  Mazzatinito,  and  Regaterin, 
among  the  most  famous  of  Spain's  matadores  — far 
more  so  than  any  it  had  been  my  fortune  to  see  in 
that  country. 

I  sped  away  at  once  along  a  macadamed  highway 
at  the  base  of  the  Pyrenees  beside  a  clear  river  — 
a  mere  **  riviere  "  to  the  French,  but  one  that  would 
have  been  a  mighty  stream  in  Spain.  Its  banks 
were  thickly  grown  with  willows.  On  the  other  hand 
the  mountain  wall,  no  less  green,  rose  sheer  above 
me,  bringing  an  unusually  early  sunset.  Along  the 
way  I  met  several  old  men,  all  Basques,  who  noting 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  279 

that  I  also  wore  the  boina  greeted  me  in  their  native 
**  Euscarra."  Not  a  word  of  any  other  tongue 
could  they  speak;  and  when  I  shook  my  head  hope- 
lessly at  their  hermetical  language,  they  halted  to 
gaze  after  me  with  expressions  of  deep  perplexity. 
So,  too,  in  the  mountain-top  village  of  Bidarry  to 
which  I  climbed  long  after  dark  after  a  dip  in  the 
river,  all  speech  was  Basque;  though  some  of  the 
younger  inhabitants,  finding  I  was  of  their  race  only 
from  the  cap  upward,  fell  to  talking  to  me  in  fluent 
French  or  Spanish. 

The  first  hours  of  the  following  day  were  in  the 
highest  degree  pleasant.  Thereafter  the  country 
grew  hilly,  the  sun  torrid,  and  as  I  was  forced  to 
set  the  sharpest  pace  to  reach  the  bullring  by  four. 
I  put  in  as  dripping  a  half-day  as  at  any  time  dur- 
ing the  summer;  and  I  have  yet  to  be  more  nearly 
incinerated  in  this  life  than  in  the  sol  of  the  great 
**  Place  des  Taureaux  "  of  Bayonne,  crushed  between 
a  workman  in  corduroys  and  a  Zouave  in  the  thick- 
est woolen  uniform  the  loom  weaves. 

The  fight,  like  the  ring,  was  Spanish  in  every 
particular,  though  the  programmes  were  printed  in 
French.  It  was  by  all  odds  the  greatest  corrida  I 
was  privileged  to  attend  during  the  summer,  for  the 
three  matadores  stand  in  the  front  rank  of  their 
profession.  Yet  it  was  somehow  far  less  exhilarat- 
ing than  those  I  had  seen  in  Spain.  One  had  a  feel- 
ing that  these  past  masters  were  running  far  less 


280      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

risk  than  their  younger  colleagues;  one  enjoyed  their 
dexterity  as  one  enjoys  a  seasoned  public  speaker, 
yet  the  performance  lacked  just  the  thrill  of  ama- 
teurishness. 

Here,  too,  I  saw  Spain's  greatest  picador,  the  only 
one  indeed  I  ever  saw  accomplish  what  the  picador 
is  supposed  to  do, —  to  hold  off  the  bull  with  his 
garrocha.  This  he  did  repeatedly,  placing  his  lance 
so  unerringly  that  he  stopped  the  animal's  most 
furious  charges  and  forced  him  to  retire  bellowing 
with  rage  and  with  blood  trickling  down  over  his 
shoulders.  In  all  the  afternoon  this  king  of  the  pike- 
pole  had  but  one  horse  kiUed  under  him.  It  was  in 
connection  with  this  one  fall  that  Quinito,  the  bold- 
est of  the  matadores,  won  by  his  daring  such  applause 
as  seemed  to  shake  the  Pyrenees  behind  us.  Moreno 
lay  half  buried  under  his  dead  horse,  in  more  than 
imminent  danger  of  being  gored  to  death  by  the  bull 
raging  above  him.  In  vain  the  anxious  caudrilla 
flaunted  their  cloaks.  All  at  once  Quinito  stepped 
empty  handed  into  the  ring  and  caught  the  animal 
by  the  tail.  Away  the  brute  dashed  across  the  plaza, 
twisting  this  way  and  that,  but  unable  to  bring  his 
horns  nearer  than  an  inch  or  two  of  his  tormentor 
who,  biding  his  time,  let  go  and  vaulted  lightly  over 
the  barrier. 

I  quitted  Bayonne  with  the  dawn  and  for  four  days 
following  marched  steadily  on  across  the  great 
Lcmdes    of   France.     Miles    upon    miles    the    broad 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  «81 

highway  stretched  unswerving  before  me  through 
an  ultra-flat  country  between  endless  forests  of  pine. 
On  the  trunk  of  every  tree  hung  a  sort  of  flowerpot 
to  catch  the  dripping  pitch.  There  was  almost  no 
agriculture,  nothing  but  pine-trees  stretching  away 
in  regular  rows  in  every  direction,  a  solitude  broken 
only  by  the  sighing  of  the  wind  sweeping  across  the 
flatlands,  where  one  could  shout  to  the  full  capacity 
of  one's  lungs  without  awakening  other  response  than 
long  rolling  echoes.  Once  in  a  while  a  pitch-gatherer 
flitted  among  the  trees;  less  often  the  highway 
crossed  a  rusty  and  apparently  trainless  railroad  at 
the  solitary  stations  of  which  were  tumbled  hundreds 
of  barrels  of  pitch. 

My  shoes  wore  out,  those  very  oxfords  **  custom- 
made  '*  in  America  and  honestly  tapped  in  Toledo, 
and  I  was  forced  to  continue  the  tramp  in  al- 
pargatas,  or  what  had  here  changed  their  name  to 
scmdales.  As  my  twenty-franc  piece  melted  away  a 
wondering  began  to  grow  upon  me  whether  I  was 
really  homeward  bound  after  all;  so  myriad  are  the 
mishaps  that  may  befall  a  mere  letter. 

Still  the  unswerving  road  continued,  the  endless 
forests  stretched  ahead.  Such  few  persons  as  I  met 
scowled  at  me  in  the  approved  French  fashion,  never 
once  imitating  the  cheery  greeting  of  the  Spaniard. 
Now  and  again  a  man-slaughtering  automobile  tore 
by  like  some  messenger  to  or  from  the  infernal 
regions,  recalling  by  contrast  one  of  the  chief  charms 


282     FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

of  the  land  I  had  left  behind.  Hardly  one  of  those 
destroyers  of  peace  and  tranquillity  had  I  seen  or 
heard  in  all  Spain. 

Four  months  afoot  had  not  improved  my  outward 
appearance.  It  was  not  strange  that  the  post-office 
officials  of  Bordeaux  stared  at  me  long  and  suspi- 
ciously when  I  arrived  at  length  one  afternoon  with 
a  single  franc  in  my  pocket.  The  letter  was  there. 
When  I  had,  after  the  unwinding  of  endless  red  tape, 
collected  the  amount  of  the  order,  my  journey  seemed 
over  indeed. 

The  "  Agents  Maritimes  "  to  whom  I  applied  ac- 
cepted me  readily  enough  as  an  emigrant  to  America, 
agreeing  to  pick  me  up  in  Bordeaux  and  set  me  down 
unstarved  in  New  York  for  the  net  sum  of  two  hun- 
dred and  three  francs.  But  there  came  a  hitch  in  the 
proceedings.  The  agent  was  firing  at  me  with 
Gaelic  speed  the  questions  prescribed  by  our  exact- 
ing government  — "  Name?  "  "  Age?  "  *'  Profes- 
sion ?  " —  and  setting  down  the  answers  almost  before 
I  gave  them,  when : 

"  Have  you  contracted  to  work  in  the  United 
States?" 

**  Oui,  monsieur." 

He  stopped  like  a  canvas  canoe  that  has  struck 
a  snag. 

**  C'est  impossible,"  he  announced,  closing  his  book 
of  blanks  with  a  thump.  "  We  cannot  of  course  sd} 
you  a  ticket." 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  283 

I  plunged  at  once  into  an  explanation.  I  ad- 
vanced the  information  that  the  contract  labor  law 
was  not  framed  to  shut  out  American  citizens. 
I  protested  that  I  had  already  toiled  a  year 
under  the  contract  in  question,  and  for  my  sins 
must  return  to  toil  another.  I  made  no  headway 
whatever. 

"  It  is  the  law  of  the  United  States,"  he  snapped. 
"Voimi     C'est  assez." 

Luckily  I  had  a  day  to  spare.  By  dint  of  appeal- 
ing to  every  maritime  authority  in  the  city  I  con- 
vinced the  agent  at  last  of  his  error.  But  it  was 
none  too  soon.  With  my  bundle  and  ticket  in  one 
hand  and  a  sort  of  meal-sack  tag  to  tie  In  my  lapel  — 
if  I  so  chose  —  in  the  other,  I  tumbled  into  the  night 
train  for  Paris  just  as  its  wheels  began  to  turn.  Em- 
igrant tickets  are  not  good  in  France  by  day.  There 
was  one  other  tagged  passenger  in  the  compartment, 
a  heavy-mannered  young  peasant  likewise  wearing  a 
boina.  Being  thus  drawn  together  we  fell  gradually] 
into  conversation.  He  was  at  first  exceeding  chary, 
with  the  two-fold  canniness  of  the  Basque  and  of  the 
untraveled  rustic  whose  native  village  has  warned 
him  for  weeks  to  beware  wily  strangers.  When  I 
displayed  my  ticket,  however,  he  lost  at  once  his  sus- 
picion and,  drawing  out  his  own,  proposed  that  we 
make  the  journey  as  partners.  He  was  bound  for 
Idaho.  We  did  not,  however,  exchange  ideas  with 
partner-like    ease,    for   though   he   had   passed   his 


284      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

twenty-five  years  in  the  province  of  Guipuzcoa  he 
spoke  little  Spanish. 

Near  midnight  a  few  passengers  alighted  and  I  fell 
into  a  cramped  and  restless  sort  of  dog-sleep  from 
which  I  awoke  as  we  screamed  into  Versailles.  When 
we  descended  at  the  Montpamasse  station  we  were 
joined  by  three  more  Basques  from  another  com- 
partment. They,  too,  wore  boinas  and,  like  my  com- 
panion, in  lieu  of  coats,  smocks  reaching  almost  to 
the  knees.  They  were  from  near  Pamplona  and  had 
tickets  from  Bordeaux  to  Fresno,  California,  having 
taken  this  route  to  avoid  the  difficulties  of  leaving 
Spain  by  sea. 

The  Paris  agent  of  the  "  American  Line  "  did  not 
meet  us  in  silk  hat  and  with  open  arms;  but  when 
we  had  shivered  about  the  station  something  over  an 
hour  an  unshaven  Italian  of  forty,  with  lettered  cap 
and  a  remarkable  assortment  of  unlearned  tongues 
picked  us  up  and  bore  us  away  by  omnibus  to  his 
**  Cucina  Italiana  "  in  the  Passage  Moulin.  Break- 
fast over,  I  invited  my  fellow-emigrants  to  view 
Paris  under  my  leadership.  They  accepted,  after 
long  consultation,  and  we  marched  away  along  the 
Rue  de  Lyon  to  the  site  of  the  Bastille,  then  on  into 
the  roar  of  the  city,  the  Spaniards  so  helplessly  over- 
whelmed by  the  surrounding  sights  and  sounds  that 
I  was  called  upon  times  without  number  to  save  them 
being  run  down.  At  length  we  crossed  to  the  island 
and,  the  morgue  being  closed,  entered  Notre  Dame. 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  285 

I  had  hitherto  credited  Catholic  churches  with  being 
the  most  democratic  of  institutions.  Hardly  were  we 
inside,  however,  when  a  priest  steamed  down  upon  my 
companions. 

"  Sortez  de  suite !  "  he  commanded.  "  Get  out  I 
How  dare  you  enter  the  sacred  cathedral  in  blouses !  " 

The  Basques  stared  at  him  open-mouthed,  now  and 
then  nervously  wiping  their  hands  on  the  offending 
smocks.  I  passed  on  and  they  followed,  pausing 
where  I  paused,  to  gape  at  whatever  I  looked  upon. 
The  priest  danced  shouting  about  them.  They  smiled 
at  him  gratefully,  as  if  they  fancied  he  were  explain- 
ing to  them  the  wonders  of  the  edifice.  His  com- 
mands grew  vociferous. 

**  Ces  messieurs,  sir,"  I  remarked  at  last,  *'  are 
Spaniards  and  do  not  understand  a  word  of  French." 

"  You  then,  tell  them  to  get  out  at  once !  "  he  cried 
angrily. 

"  You  must  pardon  me,  monsieur,"  I  protested,  "  if 
I  do  not  presume  to  appoint  myself  interpreter  t» 
your  cathedral." 

We  continued  our  way,  strolling  down  one  nave 
to  the  altar,  sauntering  back  along  the  other  toward 
the  entrance,  the  priest  still  prancing  about  us.  In 
the  doorway  the  Basques  turned  to  thank  him  by 
signs  for  his  kindness  and  backed  away  devoutedly 
crossing  themselves. 

At  the  Louvre,  however,  the  smock-wearers  were 
halted  at  the  door  by  two  stocky  officials,  and  we 


«86      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

wandered  on  into  the  Tuileries  Gardens.  There  the 
quartet  balked.  These  hardy  mountaineers,  accus- 
tomed to  trudge  all  day  on  steep  hillsides  behind  their 
burros,  were  worn  out  by  a  few  miles  of  strolling  on 
city  pavements.  For  an  hour  they  sat  doggedly  in 
a  bench  before  I  could  cajole  them  a  few  yards  fur- 
ther to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  to  board  a  Seine 
steamer  and  return  to  the  Cucina.  I  left  them  there 
and  returned  alone  to  while  away  the  afternoon 
among  my  old  haunts  in  the  Latin  Quarter. 

Soon  after  dark  the  razorless  son  of  Italy  took 
us  once  more  in  tow  and,  climbing  to  the  imperial  of 
an  omnibus,  we  rolled  away  through  the  brilliant 
boulevards  to  the  gare  St.  Lazare.  Here  was  assem- 
bled an  army  of  emigrants  male  and  female,  of  all 
ages  and  various  distances  from  their  last  soaping. 
In  due  time  we  were  admitted  to  the  platform.  A 
third-class  coach  marked  "  Cherbourg  "  stood  near  at 
hand.  I  stepped  upon  the  running-board  to  open  a 
door.  A  station  official  caught  me  by  the  coat-tail 
with  an  oath  and  a  violence  that  would  have  landed 
me  on  the  back  of  my  head  but  for  my  grip  on  the 
door  handle.  Being  untrained  to  such  treatment,  I 
thrust  out  an  alpargata-shod  foot  mule-fashion  be- 
hind me.  The  official  went  to  sit  down  dejectedly  on 
the  further  edge  of  the  platform.  By  and  by  he 
came  back  to  shake  his  fist  in  my  face.  I  spoke  to 
him  in  his  own  tongue  and  he  at  once  subsided,  cry- 
ing: 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  287 

"  Tiens !  I  thought  you  were  one  of  those  animals 
there." 

We  were  finally  stuffed  into  four  cars,  so  close 
we  were  obliged  to  lie  all  night  with  our  legs  in  one 
another's  laps.  The  weather  was  arctic,  and  we  slept 
not  a  wink.  Early  in  the  morning  we  disentangled 
moody  and  silent  in  Cherbourg.  Another  unshaven 
agent  took  charge  of  my  companions'  baggage  with 
the  rest,  promising  it  should  be  returned  the  moment 
they  were  aboard  ship.  I  clung  skeptically  to  my 
bundle.  We  were  herded  together  in  a  tavern  and 
served  coffee  and  bread,  during  the  administration 
of  which  the  agent  collected  our  tickets  and  any 
proof  that  we  had  ever  possessed  them,  and  disap- 
peared. The  day  was  wintry  cold.  All  the  morn- 
ing we  marched  shivering  back  and  forth  between 
the  statue  of  Napoleon  and  the  edge  of  the  beach, 
the  teeth  of  the  south-bom  Basques  chattering  audi- 
bly. At  noon  we  jammed  our  way  into  the  tavern 
again  for  soup,  beef  and  poor  cider,  and  were  given 
rendezvous  at  two  at  one  of  the  wharves. 

By  that  hour  all  were  gathered.  It  was  after 
four,  however,  when  a  tender  tied  up  alongside.  A 
man  stepped  forth  with  an  armful  of  tickets  and 
began  croaking  strange  imitations  of  the  names 
thereon.  I  heard  at  last  a  noise  that  sounded  not 
altogether  unlike  my  own  name  and,  no  one  else 
chancing  to  forestall  me,  marched  on  board  to  re- 
claim my   credentials.     A  muscular  arm  thrust  me 


288      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

on  through  a  passageway  in  which  a  Frenchman  in 
uniform  caught  me  suddenly  by  the  head  and  turned 
up  my  eyelids  with  a  sort  of  stiletto.  Before  I  could 
double  a  fist  in  protest  another  arm  pushed  me  on. 
At  six  a  signal  ran  up,  we  steamed  out  through  the 
breakwater,  and  were  soon  tumbling  up  the  gangway 
of  the  steamer  New  York.  At  the  top  another  doc- 
tor lay  in  wait,  but  forewarned,  I  flung  open  my  pass- 
port, and  flaunting  it  in  his  face,  stepped  unmo- 
lested on  deck. 

Some  four  hundred  third-class  passengers  had 
boarded  the  steamer  in  England,  and  no  small  per- 
centage of  the  berths  were  already  occupied.  Un- 
like the  nests  of  the  Prinzessin,  however,  they  might 
reasonably  be  called  berths,  for  though  they  ofi'ered 
no  luxury,  or  indeed  privacy,  being  two  hundred  in  a 
section,  the  quarters  were  ventilated,  well-lighted, 
and  to  a  certain  extent  clean.  I  stepped  to  the  near- 
est unoccupied  bunk  and  was  about  to  toss  my  bundle 
into  it  when  a  young  steward  in  shirt-sleeves  and 
apron  sprang  at  me. 

"  No  good,  John,"  he  shouted,  in  Cockney  accents 
and  striving  to  add  force  to  his  remarks  by  a  clumsy 
pantomime.  "  Berth  take.  No  more.  No  good, 
John.  All  gone.  But — "  jerking  his  head  side- 
wise  — "  Pst !  John !  I  know  one  good  berth.  One 
dollar — "  holding  up  a  hand  with  forefinger  and 
thumb  in  the  form  of  that  over-popular  object  — 
"AUtake,  Joh— " 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  289 

**  Say,  what  fell's  the  game,  anyhow,  mate?"  I 
interrupted. 

His  legs  all  but  wilted  under  him. 

'*  Sye,  ol'  man,"  he  cried,  patting  me  on  the 
shoulder.  "  S'elp  me,  I  took  you  for  one  o'  these 
waps,  as  why  shouldn't  I,  in  that  there  sky-piece 
an*  make-up?  Of  course  you  can  'ave  the  berth. 
xOr  sye,  over  'ere  by  the  port'ole's  a  far  'an'somer 
one.  There  y'  are.  Now,  mite,  if  ever  I  can  'elp 
you  out — "  and  he  was  still  chattering  when  I 
climbed  again  on  deck. 

Unfortunately,  in  the  rough  and  tumble  of  em- 
barking I  had  lost  sight  of  the  Spaniards.  When  I 
found  them  again  every  berth  was  really  taken,  for 
there  was  a  shortage  —  or  rather  considerably  more 
than  the  legal  number  of  tickets  had  been  cold;  and 
the  quartet,  having  withstood  the  blackmail,  were 
among  those  unprovided.  That  night  they  slept,  if 
at  all,  on  the  bare  deck.  Next  day  I  protested  to 
the  third-class  steward  and  he  spread  for  them  two 
sacks  of  straw  on  a  lower  hatch.  There,  too,  the  icy 
sea  air  circulated  freely.  Worst  of  all,  in  spite  of 
the  solemn  promises  of  the  agent,  their  bags,  in  which 
they  had  packed  not  only  blankets  and  heavier  gar- 
ments, but  meat,  bread,  fruit,  cheese,  and  botas  of 
wine  sufficient  to  supply  them  royally  during  all  the 
journey,  had  been  stowed  away  in  the  hold.  For 
two  days  they  showed,  after  the  fashion  of  emi- 
grants, no  interest  in  gastronomic  matters.     When 


290      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

appetite  returned  they  could  not  eat  American  — 
or  rather  English  food.  "No  hay  ajos!  —  It  has 
no  garlic !  "  they  complained.  Once  or  twice  I  acted 
as  agent  between  them  and  an  under  cook  who 
sneaked  out  of  the  galley  with  a  roast  chicken  under 
his  jacket,  but  they  grew  visibly  leaner  day  by  day. 

On  the  whole  steerage  life  on  the  Nem  York  was 
endurable.  The  third-class  fare  was  on  a  par  with 
most  English  cooking, —  well-meant  but  otherwise 
uncomraendable.  The  tables  and  dishes  were  moder- 
ately clean,  the  waiters,  expecting  a  sixpence  tip  at 
the  end  of  the  passage,  were  almost  obliging.  In 
the  steerage  cining-room,  large  and  airy,  was  a  piano 
around  which  we  gathered  of  an  evening  to  chat,  or 
to  croak  old-fashioned  songs.  Here  it  was  that  I 
felt  the  full  force  of  my  long  total  abstinence  from 
English.  It  was  days  before  I  could  talk  fluently; 
many  a  time  my  tongue  clattered  about  a  full  half- 
minute  in  quest  of  some  quite  everyday  word. 

On  the  fourth  day  out  the  oldest  of  the  Spaniards 
appealed  to  me  for  the  twentieth  time  to  intercede 
for  them  with  the  third-class  steward. 

"  Hombre,"  I  answered,  "  it  is  useless ;  I  have 
talked  myself  hoarse.  Go  to  him  yourself  and  it 
may  have  some  effect." 

**  But  he  understands  neither  Castilian  nor 
Eliscarra ! "  cried  the  Basque. 

**  No  matter,"  I  replied.  "  He  is  a  man  in  such 
and   such  a  uniform.     When  you   run    across   him 


EMIGRATING  HOMEWARD  291 

touch  him  on  the  sleeve  and  lay  your  head  sidewise 
on  your  hand  —  the  pantomime  for  sleep  the  world 
over  —  and  he  will  remember  your  case." 

An  hour  or  more  afterward  I  was  aroused  from 
reading  a  book  in  an  alleyway  aft  by  the  third-class 
steward. 

"  I  say,"  he  cried,  **  will  you  come  and  see  what 
the  bloomin'  saints  is  biting  these  Spanish  chaps? 
They  ayn't  no  one  else  can  chin  their  lingo.'* 

I  followed  him  forward.  Before  the  dispensary 
stood  a  wondering  and  sympathetic  group,  in  the 
center  of  which  was  the  Basque  making  wry  faces 
and  groaning,  and  the  ship's  surgeon  looking  al- 
most frightened. 

"  What 's  up?  "  I  asked. 

*'  Blow  me  if  I  know ! "  cried  the  medicine-man. 
**  This  chap  comes  and  touches  me  on  the  arm  and 
holds  his  hand  against  his  cheek.  I  gave  him  a  dose 
for  toothache,  and  the  beggar  's  been  howling  ever 
since.     Funny  sort  of  creatures." 

The  Spaniards  got  no  berth  during  the  voyage, 
though  I  carried  their  appeal  in  person  to  the  cap- 
tain. They  were  still  encamped  on  the  lower 
hatch  on  the  morning  when  the  land-fever  drew  us 
on  deck  at  dawn.  Soon  appeared  a  light-ship,  then 
land,  a  view  of  the  charred  ruins  of  Coney  Island, 
then  a  gasp  of  wonder  from  the  emigrants  as  the 
sky-scrapers  burst  on  their  sight.  We  steamed 
slowly  up  the  harbor,  checked  by  mail,  custom,  and 


202      FOUR  MONTHS  AFOOT  IN  SPAIN 

doctor's  boats,  and  tied  up  at  a  wharf  early  in  the 
afternoon.  Kain  was  pouring.  I  appeared  before 
a  commissioner  in  the  second  cabin  to  establish  my 
nationality,  bade  the  Basques  farewell  as  they  were 
leaving  for  Ellis  Island,  and  scudded  away  through 
the  deluge.  In  my  pocket  was  exactly  six  cents. 
I  caught  up  an  evening  paper  and  with  the  last  coin 
in  hand  dived  down  into  the  Subway. 

The  Summer's  Expense  Account: 

Transportation $90, 

Food  and  Lodging. 55. 

Bullfights,  sights,  souvenirs.....;...     10. 
Miscellaneous   . .  «- .:*x«..  .>i-    17. 

$17« 


V       / 


IT.       f  •     \^  •  OPK     V  •   ^    •/ 


«     .  \  ■        -.•*-T 


CoUege 
Library 

DP 
28 
f8^ 
1911 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     001  017  748     3 


[ 


